


A Chemical Defect

by AllonsyBatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlolly - Freeform, did you miss me?, sorta AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 41,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllonsyBatch/pseuds/AllonsyBatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been saved from exile thanks to an impossible face on every television screen in London.  As the mystery unfolds, the Consulting Detective gets more than he bargained for as he takes on a new partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The East Wind

“Can’t seem to get rid of you, can I?” asked John Watson as Sherlock Holmes descended the steps from the private jet.

“Well, you know what it’s like with me: nobody ever stays dead,” Sherlock shrugged his coat back onto his shoulders as he made directly for the black car parked across the tarmac.  Mycroft emerged just as Sherlock stepped up to the door.  “You’re certain?”

“All over London, every television possesses the same message,” Mycroft held out his phone to show his brother the image of Jim Moriarty, comically mouthing, “ _Did you miss me_ ” across the screen.

“It looks like the game is back on, John.” Sherlock said, looking at his friend as he got in the car, unable to hide the ghost of a smirk coming back to his face.


	2. Could Be Dangerous

Molly Hooper silently gripped the poker from the fireplace as she soundlessly padded her way to the door.  Another quick, impatient knock almost caused her to squeak involuntarily, but she swallowed it down before coming up on her tiptoes to glance through the peephole.  Spying a familiar curly head, her entire stance immediately relaxed as she opened the door. 

“Were you really going to defend yourself against the number one consulting criminal in the world with a fire poker?” Sherlock asked, a look of haughty derision on his face.

“Well, it was better than the first idea of using the cat as a shield,” Molly joked back, walking over to return the poker at the hearth, wordlessly inviting Sherlock inside the tiny flat.

“I take it you’ve heard?” He asked cautiously, unsure as to what sort of emotional turmoil Molly had been experiencing and unwilling to deal with tears at the moment.

“Of course.  Although at this point I think the entire country has heard.” Molly spun the poker about with her fingers.

Sherlock only nodded, unable to meet her eyes. 

“How, Sherlock?  How?  You said he shot himself in the head.”  She looked up to his face, unable to hide her concern.

“He did.  I…don’t know.  I have absolutely no idea what he-or whoever this is-is playing at.”

Molly shifted her weight from foot to foot.  “Never thought I’d hear that out of you.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know everything.”

“Or that.” She gave him a tentative smile, surprised when he returned it.  “Sherlock…What are we going to do?”

“We?” His tone was not one of condescension, but rather of surprise.

“Yes, _we_.  I helped you through this before, and I don’t intend on running and hiding anymore.  I just want this to be over.”

Sherlock smiled again in spite of himself-- _honestly, what had gotten into him?_ \--before he sighed and put his hands in his coat pockets. 

“Well, to start off, you can pack a bag.  You’ll stay with me at Baker Street until this issue is resolved.”

“Oh, _will I_?” Molly asked, her hands resting on her hips and her eyebrows rising in question.

“Yes.  It will be much safer for you to be with me, as Mycroft has the flat under constant level three surveillance.  He thinks I don’t know, but honestly, a child could figure it out.  There is an extra bedroom upstairs and you are welcome to bring your ridiculous pet.”

“Oh, Sherlock, you know just what to say to melt a girl’s heart,” Molly said sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she walked towards her bedroom. 

Sherlock’s face screwed up in confusion as he turned to watch her leave.  “What?  I wasn’t trying to-“

“Sarcasm, Sherlock.”

“Oh.  Right.  Where are you going?” 

She turned around to face him before shutting her bedroom door.  “Well, I was going to pack a bag like you said, unless you fancy me walking around your flat in your dress shirts for a few days.”  She said before shutting the door.  Sherlock stood for a moment, pondering her last statement and trying with all his might to get the pesky idea of Molly wearing one of his shirts- _and only one of his shirts_ -around Baker Street.  He shook his head.   _Could be dangerous._


	3. Hear Her Roar

“Eat,” said Molly, shoving half a sandwich in Sherlock’s face as he continued to type on his laptop. 

“Working.” He replied quickly as he pushed her hand aside without taking his eyes off the screen.  Not missing a beat, she deftly shut the lid on top of his fingers.

“Wasn’t a request,” she said, again shoving the sandwich in his face, this time smirking when he took it with a frustrated look, like a child being forced to do something he didn’t want to do.  He reluctantly bit into the sandwich as she went to curl up on his chair, blanket wrapped around her and television remote in hand. 

“I liked you better when you were terrified of me,” Sherlock retorted, finishing the sandwich before re-opening his laptop and returning to his work.

“Yeah, well, I liked your case better dead,” she said, flipping through the channels and wrapping the blanket tighter around her.

After a while of mindlessly flipping through channels, she rose from the chair and stretched, before walking over to Sherlock seated at his desk.  “You need to sleep tonight.”

“I’m working.  I think I may have figured out the piece of the Network I missed.”

“Sherlock, I’ve been here for three days and you’ve been running around London or staring at that screen the entire time.  You know what sleep deprivation can do to cognitive function.”

Sherlock sighed and looked up at her through his brow.  “Molly, you’re not my mother.  I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Really.” 

Molly reached up and flicked him on the forehead, directly between the eyes.

 “What was that for?” He asked, rubbing the red mark slowly forming between his dark-circled eyes.

“A well-rested detective would have seen that coming.  We both know you wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight in your current condition.  Get a few hours.  The work will be there in the morning.  Please?”  She went to close the computer again, only this time gently taking his hands in hers and setting them onto his lap before closing the lid with a click.

Sherlock was still slightly in awe of this new Molly.  She had changed so dramatically in the months leading up to the Magnussen case that he could hardly believe this to be the same mousy woman who made him coffee so long ago in the morgue.  Molly poised herself with confidence in her appearance, always keeping her head held high with eyes that were piercing with ease.  However, the most obvious change of all was her blatant lack of fear around him.  She no longer seemed to walk on eggshells and her stammer was only a distant memory.  Maybe he should phone that _Meat Dagger_ fellow and thank him for being a massive ass, as it had clearly done Molly some good.

“If I sleep, will you leave me alone tomorrow about eating?”

“Fine, I was going to go do some of my own reconnaissance tomorrow anyway.”

Sherlock looked up at her, confused, before realizing.  “Sarcasm?”

“Sarcasm.” She answered, headed for the stairs.  “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He couldn’t help the smile when he answered.  “Goodnight, Molly.”


	4. Chemical Defect Found on the Losing Side

“SHERLOCK!”

The scream ripped through the flat with a piercing severity, jolting Sherlock awake from a deep sleep.  He tore the sheets off himself with one hand while simultaneously grabbing the gun from his bedside table with the other.  Molly’s screams continued to ring out as he bounded up the stairs three at a time, bursting into the room and flicking on the light switch, gun drawn.  The room was empty except for Molly, still lying in bed and screaming-her eyes shut tight.  Sherlock tossed the gun into the empty armchair in the corner and ran to her side, sitting on the side of the bed and attempting to pull her up into a sitting position as her screams continued.

Her eyes opened and looked about the room wildly, barely registering Sherlock’s hands on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him.

“Molly!  It’s me!  You’re ok, it’s just a dream!  I’m right here!”

Her screams quieted into soft whimpers as she continued to scan the room, her hands coming up to grip Sherlock’s wrists at either side of her face.  “Sherlock,” she began, her voice quavering to the point that it almost couldn’t be understood, “he was here.  He was-“

“Molly, you were having a nightmare.  No one’s here.  It’s just me, no one is going to hurt you.”

Molly finally allowed herself to look at Sherlock and was shocked on several levels.  Her head was swimming with images of Jim, so it took a moment to register that he was half-naked, wearing only a pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms.  Next was the fact that he had one hand on her cheek, and the other gently petted the back of her head in an almost tender way.  However, what shocked Molly the most was his expression: underneath the shock of being woken so suddenly was a genuinely terrified look of compassion-a look she had never seen the detective wear before.  His eyes were red-rimmed and darker than she had ever seen them.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he repeated. 

Tears flooded Molly’s eyes as she tried unsuccessfully to rake in her sobs. 

“God, Sherlock, it was so real,” she choked.

Surprising even himself, Sherlock pulled her head down against his shoulder, wrapping his arms securely around her back.  “It was just a dream, you’re fine now.”

Molly placed her hands on either side of Sherlock’s bare chest- _God he’s fit_ -and sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder.  He continued to lightly caress her hair and allowed his other arm to rub her back in a soothing motion.  Somewhere in her head Molly realized how odd a behavior this was from Sherlock-it was almost as if he _cared_ about her.  _Obviously not_ , she thought.  Her sobs finally subsided as she lifted her head and attempted to wipe the wetness from Sherlock’s shoulder.  He made no move as to remove his hands from her back, which again, she thought strange.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she said with a faint smile, looking down at her blankets.

“It’s quite all right.  It’s been at least a month since my heart had stopped.”

She smiled down at her sheets until she felt his hand gently pull on her chin to make her lift her head.  His eyes looked a bit softer now as he was smiling. _This is weird._

“I’m serious, Molly.  Nothing is going to happen to you.  You’re safe here.”  He reassured her as he used one of his thumbs to wipe a stray tear from her cheek and she had to giggle.

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” She laughed.

“What?” he looked somewhat hurt, his brow lifting in question.

“The Sherlock I know would never have comforted a blubbering woman who was being irrational over a silly dream,”

Sherlock’s hand returned to her back and Molly could almost swear she saw a slight pink blush coloring his cheeks in the pale lamplight. 

“I was simply calming you so Mycroft’s men outside didn’t think you were being murdered.  And I don’t think you’re being irrational.  Everyone has nightmares.”

“Even you?”

Sherlock’s grip on her tightened infinitesimally as he recalled the vivid images of Magnussen’s face with a bright red hole in his forehead swimming about in his subconscious. It wasn’t something he was ready to share.  _Not now._

“Of course.”

Seeming to just now notice their continued hold on each other, Molly and Sherlock awkwardly dropped their hands and fell into an uncomfortably tense silence. 

Sherlock’s heart fluttered in an unfamiliar way.  It actually seemed to have started hammering the moment Molly touched her forehead to his shoulder, her skin against his.  Now, as he looked at her tear-stained face, he could see each individual water droplet clinging to her eyelashes and he fought away the overwhelming urge to-his heart skipped a beat as he realized- _he wanted to kiss her_.  Molly seemed to register his inner struggle and furrowed her brow in confusion before he quickly made to stand up, making a few incoherent babbles before finally accomplishing a full sentence.

“Well, I’ll just let you get back to sleep then.  I’ll be right downstairs if you need…anything.” He grabbed the gun and made to leave the room. Molly bit back a gasp as he turned away from her.  Sherlock’s back was entirely covered in long, jagged scars. Her mind flicked back to the day Sherlock experimented on a corpse using a riding crop.  _Whip marks?_ Molly’s mind fought to make sense of it, trampling out the idea of _The Woman_ and the scars being anything recreational.  _Torture._ She had no idea what he had been up to in his time away from London, but she stole herself to find out.

“Sherlock?”  He turned, vaguely nursing the idea that she may want him to stay.

“Hm?”

 _Another time,_ she thought. “Thank you.”  She settled herself back under the covers as he switched the light back off, biting his lower lip slightly.

“You’re welcome.  Goodnight.”  He shut the door and rested his back against it, releasing a deep breath and closing his eyes before starting back down the stairs.  He would not return to his own bed tonight.  Instead, he would begin to sort through the mess of emotions that had manifested at the forethought of his mind.  _A chemical defect found on the losing side._


	5. Lines in the Sand

Sherlock had just finished putting the fourth spoonful of sugar into his tea when there was a knock on the door.  “It’s open,” he replied, sitting at the table and raising the newspaper without looking at the door. 

“And what if I had been a psychopath?” John asked as he entered, followed by Mary close behind, carefully navigating her swollen belly through the doorframe. 

“Then you probably wouldn’t have used your own key on the downstairs door or stutter-stepped on the stairs when your wife pinched your arse.”

John shot an accusatory glance at Mary.  “Don’t look at me,” she started, “it was your idea to come over here first thing in the morning.”

John rolled his eyes and helped himself to the kettle to prepare tea for him and Mary, ignoring the extra mug off to the side.  Just as he was settling back at the table, mug in hand, there came the sound of Molly thumping down the steps and into the kitchen.  She was still in her pajamas, but her hair had been rudimentarily thrown up in a messy bun atop her head and one of Sherlock’s spare dressing gowns was slumped over her shoulders, the sleeves rolled up a ludicrous amount of times for her hands to be visible.  “Good morning!  I-Oh!  Hello, John, Mary.  How are you?” Molly began before noticing the familiar guests.

John had stopped with his tea halfway to his mouth and was staring at Molly like she was an animal that had begun to speak.  Mary, who had started to read Sherlock’s discarded pages, hardly looked up to answer kindly.  “We’re fine, Molly, and you?”

“Tea?” asked Sherlock, handing Molly the extra mug John had seen on the counter.  She took it graciously and continued to address Mary.

“Oh, fine, you know, considering the circumstances.  A little tired.  Speaking of which-Sherlock, you don’t think I woke Mrs. Hudson with the screaming last night, do you?”

John’s head, which had snapped to the mug on the counter and back to Molly, now snapped back to look at Sherlock, rather like he was watching some sort of perverse tennis match.

“No, she’s off visiting her sister at Mycroft’s suggestion.  They are currently on holiday in an undisclosed location in Switzerland.” 

“Ah, good, I know how uncomfortable this situation has made her.  Anyway, need to get ready for work!”

She took her tea and headed for the bathroom as Sherlock lifted his paper and continued to read.  John finally set his tea back upon the table, but continued to stare open-mouthed at Sherlock without speaking. 

“John, dear-you’ll catch flies,” Mary said, her own eyes not looking up from her newspaper.  John’s head turned to look at her then quickly back to Sherlock, trying with all his might to make sense of the current situation.  He settled on a single word.  He figured he could manage that.

“Explain.”

Sherlock and Mary simultaneously lowered their papers, looking at John with confusion.

“Explain what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at John as Mary looked amused.

Unable to fathom more words, John pointed determinedly behind him toward the now closed bathroom door.

“Molly?  She’s staying here until I solve the case-she’ll be safer.”  He looked down and continued to read his paper, raising his own mug up to take a drink.

“And…you’re…” John tried to choose his words carefully. “… _sleeping_ with her?”

Sherlock choked, little droplets of tea spraying the surface of his newspaper.  Mary hid her giggle behind her own paper.

“What?  No!  Why would you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know Sherlock-she’s wearing _your_ dressing gown?” John crossed his arms.

“She was cold last night and borrowed it!”

“What about that bit with the ‘ _screaming last night_?’”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his own arms defensively over his chest.  “She had a nightmare last night…about Moriarty,” he gave a pointed look at John. “I merely…comforted her.”

“You.  You comforted her?  You-Sherlock Holmes-provided comfort to another human being without it being an advantage to yourself?” 

“Is that so hard to believe?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes!” responded John, a little too forcefully.  Sherlock huffed and got up to place his mess of a mug into the sink.

“Aha!” exclaimed John.  “And how do you explain that?  You made her tea!”

“Well-spotted,” said Sherlock, turning his back to hide the beginnings of a blush in his cheeks from John.

“You never made tea not once in all the years I lived here.”

“Well, Mrs. Hudson is out, and I wanted some.”

“Right,” John smiled victoriously.  “Sure you did.”  He shared a quick look with Mary, who quirked up one eyebrow and smirked behind her paper.  “Well, I’m going to go fix that leaky pipe in Mrs. Hudson’s flat.  She’s been complaining about it for weeks.”  John rose and started down the stairs as Sherlock resettled himself into his seat. 

At that moment, Molly emerged from the bathroom wrapped in only a towel, carrying her mug to the sink. Sherlock managed to only let his eyes widen for a fraction of a second as she turned to face him.  “Thanks for the tea, Sherlock, and for last night.  I’m really sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s… all right.” He responded, trying desperately to look at her face and not the drops of water that still clung to her neck.  Molly took a step toward the table, looking at one of the headlines depicting the grinning face of Jim Moriarty.  Her eyes closed briefly before she turned and looked back to Sherlock.

“Oh,” she said, as she leaned in close to him.  His heart started hammering in his chest and he couldn’t for the life of him remember the concept known as “ _how to breathe_.”  Her hand reached out to his face and he closed his eyes reflexively, sucking in a breath that smelled like soap and shampoo _and Molly_ and didn’t exhale.  A ghost of a touch landed just below his right eye and he forced it open, only to see her holding her finger in front of his mouth.

“Eyelash.  Make a wish,” she smiled.  Then rolling her eyes, she took it upon herself to blow the offending hair off her own finger, turning to walk back up the stairs.

Sherlock released the breath he held and looked after her, willing his pulse to slow before his heart came up through his throat.

“Elizabeth.”

Sherlock shook his head and looked at Mary.  “What?”

“Mary Elizabeth Watson.  If you’re looking for baby names.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock huffed as he picked his tea-soaked paper up off the table again.

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re in love with Molly Hooper.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mary.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s that ridiculous.  What’s ridiculous is trying to read a newspaper upside-down.”

Sherlock dropped the newspaper and brought his hands up to run through his hair, finally deciding on giving Mary a dejected look.  His voice was barely audible.  “I don’t know how to do this.”  His heart continued hammering in his chest as he tried to sort through all the unfamiliar sentiment bombarding his brain. 

Mary sighed and smiled knowingly, lifting a hand to pat her very pregnant stomach.  “When?” she finally asked, Sherlock somehow knowing to what she referred.

“I don’t know.  I came back and I expected everything to go back to normal.  She helped with it all.  But when I saw the ring on her finger I…panicked.”

“Ah,” she nodded, “someone else started to play in the sandbox and then you didn’t want anyone else to have the toys.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back down at the floor, his hands folded on top of his head. “Only in this case, I’ve been absolutely terrible to the toy for years, and she was actually engaged to the other person in the-I’m sorry, can we abandon the appalling sandbox metaphor?”

“What are you going to do?” She asked, still smiling.

“I don’t know.”

The sound of two sets of feet on the stairs had them both turning to see John and Molly both coming back into the room, John wiping his hands on a rag and Molly gathering her bag from beside the door. 

“Well, I’m off-Mycroft’s car is outside.”  Molly smiled at each of them in turn, lingering for a moment on Sherlock.  “Thanks again.”

“Of course.  I’ll be there to walk you home.  Have a good day.”  Molly ran out the door as John turned, eyes narrowed at Sherlock.

“You’ll be there to what?”

“Oh, come off it, John,” said Mary, pulling herself up, “we should get to work too, I’m sure Sherlock has things to think about.”

“Right,” said John, eyes still suspiciously trained on Sherlock.  “Call us if you find anything out.  Or if there’s anything I can do.”

“That goes double for me,” Mary said, sneaking him a wink.  Sherlock finally allowed himself an exasperated smile as his two friends left the flat.  The world’s only consulting detective was completely out of his depth.


	6. Afternoon Nap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to my beta, CloudAlevaz, who is just the bees-knees. :)

It was two in the afternoon when Sherlock burst through the doors of the morgue, eager to make use of Molly’s lab.  He had just removed several samples of concrete from the roof of Bart’s to determine whether the blood stains upon them were genuine _and_ he was trying to convince himself that the rush of a new case was the only reason he was excited to get into the lab.

“Molly, there’s a long afternoon ahead of us, how about some coff-“

 He stopped short at the sight of Molly hunched over one of the long, empty autopsy tables, surrounded by a small mountain of papers.  His alarm quickly dissipated when he realized she was not unconscious, but merely asleep, her arms folded with her head upon them, ear-buds softly humming in her ears.  He approached cautiously, not wanting to wake her.  Curious, he clicked the home button on her iPod to see that she was listening to an album of violin concertos, many of which he played often in his own flat.  With a sigh, he set off to begin his experiment at the other end of the lab, but at the last minute turned and removed his coat, draping it gently over Molly’s shoulders.  She made a small noise and turned her head to face the other side, revealing several red lines on her face from the wrinkles of her lab coat, but did not wake. Smiling, Sherlock gathered his supplies quietly and began his study.

If it wasn’t for the stupendous cramp in her neck or the pile of paperwork to be completed, Molly would have considered going right back to sleep as soon as she woke up, as she was so delightfully warm and the smell surrounding her was marvelous. She kept her eyes closed as she breathed in the scent: clean, crisp-with just a hint of cigarette smoke.  A smell that was uniquely-

Her eyes snapped open as she realized whose scent engulfed her.  As she adjusted and stretched she felt the heavy wool coat fall from her shoulders.  Reaching down to pick it up off the floor she finally noticed Sherlock sitting on a stool in the corner of the lab, restacking a pile of glass slides next to the microscope he had claimed as his own.  Molly recognized the look on his face of him being in his Mind Palace, so she stood up silently and folded his coat over to lay it on the table before her.  It was then that she realized the plethora of paperwork she had left around her was no longer thrown into disorganized piles, but neatly stacked and- _finished?_ She leafed through the top few pages to find each one completed in handwriting easily passable as her own, though slightly more curved and neat. 

“You finished my paperwork?” She said as she walked around the table to stand before Sherlock’s bench. 

Sherlock shook his head infinitesimally as he came back to reality, focusing on the now wide-awake Molly.

“Well, my samples needed to culture.  Had a little extra time.” He turned to stand and replace the box of slides on the high shelf behind him.

“And you’re cleaning up after yourself?  Since when do you clean up the lab?” Molly approached and attempted to help place a second box on the same shelf, only to find that she could not reach.  Sherlock took the box out of her hand and placed it next to the slides effortlessly, his arm stretching high over Molly’s head.

“You were asleep.  I got bored.”

Molly gave him a confused look before removing the papers to her outbox and collecting her bag.  Looking around, she saw that there was astonishingly nothing left for her to complete.  The paperwork alone would have normally taken her long past the end of her shift, but with it being finished and the lab clean, she sighed and smiled as she picked up her coat and bag near her office door.

“I take it you’re ready to go home then?” Sherlock asked, picking up his coat and slinging it on over his shoulders.

Without a word, Sherlock held open the door with his hand held high, indicating for her to exit beneath his outstretched arm.  Molly raised an eyebrow and exited, not even needing to duck.  _I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but I could get used to it._


	7. A Rat in the House

Molly felt strangely energized by a combination of her extended afternoon nap and the idea of having the next two days off. 

“So…” she began, hurrying in an attempt to stay in stride with Sherlock.

“Hm?” Sherlock turned, almost appearing surprised that Molly was still walking alongside him.

“What did you find out?  Aside from the fact that my handwriting is rubbish?” she said before grabbing his wrist to force him to slow down to a more moderate pace.  She thought she felt a slight twitch when she touched him, but she quickly disregarded it as she dropped his arm.

“It was definitely his blood.  My brother acquired various DNA samples whilst Moriarty was in his custody.  I’ve been scouring the web for any indication that his network is still running-any whisper of his activity-“

His voice had begun to rise and she held her hands up in a placating gesture before anyone started staring. Stepping in front of him, she placed her hands on his chest and gave her best reassuring smile.  His face dropped for an instant and his breath hitched before he regained his normal brood.

“Relax.  You’ll find something,” she smiled at him, but his gaze had focused on something behind her.

“Looks like Mycroft already has.”

Molly had been about to ask what he was talking about before she turned just in time to see a sleek black car pull up to the curb precisely where the two of them were standing. She turned to question Sherlock as he grabbed her wrist and began to lead her to the waiting vehicle.

“We’re being _summoned_ ,” he spat. “He must have new information.”

“And does he think he’s James Bond?” Molly climbed into the backseat and giggled before noticing the serious expression on Sherlock’s face.

“You’ve obviously never met him,” he answered with a sigh, climbing into the seat next to her and slamming the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Brother, dear, so nice of you to drop in,” Mycroft oozed as Sherlock and Molly entered his office.

“What do you know, Mycroft?” Sherlock practically spat, leaning over the desk in what Molly was sure was supposed to be an intimidating manner.

“Well, I would have informed you sooner, brother mine, but you seemed so busy playing with your chemistry set.  Nice to see you again, Miss Hooper.”

Molly mentally wracked her brain to remember when she had met Mycroft Holmes before, ignoring the fact that he seemed to know that Sherlock had spent the day in her lab.

“MYCROFT!” Sherlock yelled, having no effect whatsoever on his elder brother. 

“I’ve found you a rat.”  Mycroft smirked devilishly at Sherlock as he sat back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself.

Sherlock’s tense stature softened a bit at this information and he straightened himself before sitting in the chair opposite his brother.

“Who?”

“No more than an underling.  Worked with Moran years back, scampered when you broke the web last spring.  My sources say he has been passing information to potential members of a new clientele, though Moriarty himself has not been seen nor heard.”  Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he reached out to straighten the already perfect row of office supplies upon his desk.

Sherlock sat back and steepled his hands beneath his chin.  “No.  He would want to stay in the dark this time.  Send his dogs to do his dirty work.”

“I thought you had kenneled all the dogs?” Molly piped up from the doorway, causing both Mycroft and Sherlock to turn to her in surprise.

“It was your metaphor.  You said that the Serbians had been the last piece of the puzzle.  So who are these guys?” She asked, determined not to be left out.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow to Sherlock before turning to address Molly.  “I suspect that whoever is behind these dealings, be it James Moriarty or an affiliate, will be trying to reestablish a syndicate similar to the one which he had before.  That is where the two of you come in.”

Sherlock’s head snapped back to look at his brother, anger beginning to etch on his face.  “Two of us?”

“Yes, brother dear.  You and Dr. Hooper have a date tonight.”

“Excuse me?” Molly said from the door, her own eyebrow rising in question this time.

“Our rat,” Mycroft began, “has been making regular appearances at The Ministry of Sound.  The two of you shall be staking him out tonight to see what he has been up to.”

“Ministry of Sound?” Sherlock asked.

“But Mycroft, we’ll never get in.  It’s Friday night, the queue will already be around the block,” Molly said, ignoring Sherlock’s question.

“Miss Hooper, has my brother failed to mention my minor position in the British government?  Admittance to a popular nightclub is child’s play.”

“You’re sending us to a _nightclub?_ ” Sherlock asked sarcastically.  “We’re never going to pull this off.”

“Oi, speak for yourself,” said Molly defensively, her hands on her hips.

“Oh, I plan on giving the two of you a bit of, oh, how would you say it?  A makeover.  You’ll fit right in.”

With that, a group of young women entered the office, pulling Sherlock and Molly in separate directions.  “Do behave, brother dear,” Mycroft smiled wickedly as Sherlock was practically dragged from the room by the barrage of women, already pulling at his clothes and making _tsk tsk_ sounds at the state of his hair.


	8. Disguises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! My beta just moved into her big-girl apartment, so 'yay!' for her! A yummy cyber-cookie to anyone who spots the ACD reference in this chapter. ;)

Molly felt…well, in a word, _hot_.  Never before in her life had so much attention been paid to her appearance, and she was grateful.  At first she had felt rather awkward, a legion of unknown women stripping her down to her knickers and waxing and plucking nearly every inch of her body without speaking.  Only after they had finished their dirty work did one girl finally speak to her.

“Well, Dr. Hooper, let’s see what we have to work with,” the tall woman said as she sat Molly in a styling chair and spun her to face the mirror.  She wound her hands in Molly’s long, flat hair and turned to the group of stylists behind her.  “Three seventy-spare no expense.  Mr. Holmes wants her all-out, top to bottom.”

“Molly was just about to say something rude about exactly what _‘Mr. Holmes’_ could have when the group of stylists swarmed her again. 

Now, looking in the mirror, she could hardly believe the person looking back was her.  Her hair had been cut to just below the shoulder and artfully curled in soft, gentle waves.  The make-up applied to her face made her skin look absolutely flawless and her eyes seemed to glow beneath her drawn-out lashes.  They had dressed her in a pair of jeans that accentuated curves she didn’t even know she had and her black lace top brought quite a bit more attention to her chest than she was used to. 

Finally, the tall woman walked in carrying a pair of black stilettos, holding them out to Molly.

“You’re nuts if you think I can walk in those!” Molly laughed derisively.  The tall woman thrust them into Molly’s hands, revealing their red bottoms. 

“These shoes cost over a thousand pounds.  Trust me, they’ll own you.”

The woman waited for Molly to put the shoes on then led them, quite slowly thanks to Molly, back into Mycroft’s office. 

Mycroft was standing hunched over his desk discussing something with another man.  Not wanting to interrupt and still rather uncomfortable in the heels, she began experimentally pacing back and forth.  After her fourth trip, she decided standing still would be safer at this point.  She decided instead to check out Mycroft’s speaking partner, who Molly noted looked quite nice from behind.  Whoever he was, he was tall-with longer brown hair highlighted in such a way to still look masculine.  He wore a navy blue polo shirt with the collar turned up and a pair of well-fitted jeans, perfectly showing off what Molly thought to be a rather nice rear-end.  She had just noticed the expensive looking boots when the man finally turned around…and Molly nearly had a heart attack.

“SHERLOCK?!”

If it weren’t for his eyes, Molly wouldn’t have been sure it was him.  Not only had they colored his hair, but they had straightened it as well, leaving a bit of a fringe falling into his eyes.  His shirt left his forearms bare, and Molly noted that he wore some sort of decorative bracelet around his right wrist before focusing on his normally-hidden biceps.  _Does Sherlock work out?_

Sherlock had said nothing himself because he seemed to be looking Molly over like a hawk, his eyes widening slightly as they passed over her low-cut top.  He shook his head, causing more hair to fall in his eyes, before finally speaking. 

“You look…” he continued sweeping her up and down, seemingly unable to finish his sentence.

“You too,” Molly said, hoping that whatever adjective he had planned on using was a positive one.

“Yes, you both certainly look…adorable,” said Mycroft with a roll of his eyes, “but do remember you have a job to do.”

Molly and Sherlock were wrenched from their stare-down to hear the details of the nights’ mission. 

“Your rat is one Langdale Pike, former gossip-news columnist turned spy.  My people inform me that there is a meeting of significant importance coming up and Mr. Pike is expected to be recruiting for said meeting.  Your job tonight is to learn everything you can from Mr. Pike, preferably information about this meeting and preferably without me having to rescue you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and accepted a large wad of cash Mycroft held out and shoved it into his pocket.  “Please, as if you were ever of any help to me,” he spat, turning to leave.

“I certainly hope your acting is better than your insults, brother mine,”

“Would you relax, bro?” said Sherlock in a perfect American accent, grabbing Molly by the waist and pulling her close to him, “we’re gonna find your rat, get your info, and be out of there in time for CSI, all right?”

Molly giggled at Sherlock’s flawless performance and reveled at him holding her in such an intimate manner.  She knew it was an act, but hey, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy herself.

“Good lord, I’ll be bailing the two of you out of jail before the night is through,” said Mycroft, lowering himself to sit at his desk as he began perusing another pile of papers.

“Ready, babe?” Sherlock asked, looking down at Molly with a sly smile and a wink.

“Oh, as ready as I’ll ever be,” she responded, trying her own hand at an American accent and failing miserably.  “I can smell the fake tans and hair gel already.”

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Sherlock did not let go of Molly’s waist even as they set off down the street.  To Molly’s surprise, he seemed relaxed and completely at ease despite their obviously dangerous mission. 

“I’ve never been a secret agent before,” Molly said sarcastically, taking a moment to check the contents of the handbag the tall woman had handed her before leaving.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t take up much of your time,” said Sherlock, still boasting his very “Jersey-style” American accent.

“Can you please stop that? It’s a bit disconcerting,” Molly laughed.

“Good lord, I thought you’d never ask,” he said, returning to his natural timbre.  He reached into the pocket of his fitted jeans to extract a pack of cigarettes and placed one in his mouth.  Before he could fish out his lighter, Molly plucked the cigarette from between his lips and threw it over their shoulders.  Sherlock groaned and released her waist, using his hands to wipe his newly-straightened hair out of his eyes.

“Molly, don’t be ridiculous, if we’re going to pull this off I can’t be on edge.”

“Absolutely not, you will not do any sort of drugs on my watch.  Find a normal way to relax.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and _humphed,_ “Hello Pot, Meet Kettle.”

“What?” Molly looked at him as she continued to walk, not yet sure if she should be offended.

“You have some room to talk, telling me to not use drugs to relax,”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but you are so wrong-“

“Please, Molly, you’ve been taking antidepressant medication for at least a year.  You’re tired all the time, yet you barely sleep at night.  You’re spending more time at work.  Maybe you’re finding it difficult to concentrate, or perhaps it’s another effect of your impaired memory, which is also made obvious by the massive collection of Post-It notes littering your flat reminding you to do everything from _‘pay your student loan’_ to _‘Be yourself!’_ Then there are all those little scratches on your arms-experiencing a bit of clumsiness, Molly?  It wouldn’t surprise me, as these are all textbook side effects of benzodiazepines, more commonly known as antidepressants or antianxiety medications.  So can I have a cigarette now, or is it not on your approved list of drugs?” He fumbled with the pack and extracted another cigarette, stopping to light it before taking a long drag and looking up to Molly.

She had stopped, and looked at him with the coldest expression he had ever seen.

“You’re not going to slap me again, are you?  Because a little warning would be nice,” he exhaled and closed his eyes as he blew the smoke upward.

“I never thought I would enjoy saying this, but you’re completely wrong.” She kept her voice level, though she was trying very hard to fight back tears.  She hadn’t cried for him in two years, she wasn’t going to start again now.

“What do you mean, I’m wrong?” he sighed and took another drag. “I suppose there’s always something.”

“No.  Not something.  Everything,” she said, holding her ground.

“Please, Molly.  Don’t try to deny it, you’ll embarrass yourself.”

Molly took a breath and stepped up close to him, forcing him to look her in the eye.  “Fine, you asked for it.  I’m always tired because I _can’t_ sleep at night.  Every time I close my eyes I either see Jim’s face or you falling off a building.  I think you saw a little evidence of that the other night.  I spend more time at work because I have no friends to spend time with and it’s the only place where I can find something else to occupy my mind aside from the fact that a lunatic could kill me any second.  The Post-It notes all over my flat are to remind me of mundane things, I know.  But unlike you, I don’t have a big brother who watches out for me or a best friend who reminds me to be human.  I don’t have anybody Sherlock.  I suppose you were right about one thing though-I am incredibly clumsy.  Know why?  Because I’ve been clumsy my entire life-a fact that you probably would have noticed if you had ever even attempted to speak to me before when it didn’t involve you getting something out of it.  Now, are you done making incorrect deductions, or would you like to insult me a little more?”

Throughout her tirade, Molly had inched closer and closer to Sherlock’s face, and he had yet to blink.  His mouth hung slightly open, the lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, untouched.  He blinked and shook his head a little, taking a half-step back from Molly.  He licked his lips and seemed to struggle to find words, then decided against it.  Looking up at her once more, he tossed the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his foot, turning to continue walking.  Molly took a deep breath and followed behind him.

They walked in silence for a few more blocks before he finally spoke, the two stopping on the street in front of The Ministry of Sound. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Molly snorted.  “Since when do you apologize?”

She looked at him sideways and saw a mix of emotions cross his face, one of which seemed to be honest remorse.  He had his fingers near his mouth and his eyes were darting back and forth as he thought of what to say next.  _He really needed a cigarette._

Molly sighed, realizing she couldn’t stay mad at him if they were to pull this off and reached into her bag, rooting around for something she had seen earlier.  She pulled the spare nicotine patch out of the bag, rolled up his sleeve, and stuck it to his upper arm where it wouldn’t be seen.  “There,” she said.  “No, wait, you need something to shut you up _now_ until that starts working,” she looked in her bag once more.

Finally, she removed a small red lollipop, took off the wrapper, and shoved it in Sherlock’s mouth without warning, eliciting a huff of indignation from the detective.  However, seeing the look of amusement on her face caused the corners of his mouth to twitch upward as he removed the candy from his mouth.  “I thought you had to be a good boy to get a sucker?” He grinned mischievously, finally bringing out a smile in Molly.

“Sherlock, if we get through this evening without getting shot at and I’ll buy you a whole bag of suckers,” she grabbed him by the arm and started to pull him toward the entrance.


	9. Decoy

Sherlock still had the red lollipop in his mouth as they entered the club, his arm again around her waist to portray their role as a young couple out for the evening.  The music blasted at such a volume that Molly had to lean in close to his ear in order to be heard.

“Seriously, though? We just got into the most popular night club by saying _‘M sent me?’_  Your brother’s ‘code name’ is ‘M?’ At first I was kidding about the James Bond stuff, but now it’s just sad,” said Molly as they entered the main room and began scanning the crowd.

“I’ll agree that Mycroft is a sad individual,” said Sherlock, absent-mindedly crunching down on the candy while his eyes swept back and forth across the room.  “Well, I don’t see our rat yet, so we may as well try to blend in.  Drink?”

Molly had to do a double-take to realize that he was offering to get her a drink before raising an eyebrow in question, “Should we really be drinking while out on our ‘secret mission?’”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly as he looked at her face.  “Tom Collins.  You like the sweeter drinks but don’t want to come off as too much of a girly-girl at the bar. Unless you’re with a group of girls, in which case you order a Cosmo.”

Molly tried to keep her face impassive, but failed when the corners of her mouth refused to stay down.  “Lucky guess.”

Sherlock smiled and started to turn towards the bar.  “I don’t guess.  Go save us a table.”

Molly turned to look behind her and managed to find a small table conveniently nestled in a corner without any occupants.  She turned to catch sight of Sherlock ordering at the bar and slid into the booth-style seat, taking the time to properly scan her surroundings. 

The table offered a perfect view of the entire room: the bar off to her right against the wall and a massive dance floor to the left, headed by a raised platform holding all of the DJ equipment.  It was still early in the evening, so no DJ yet, only pre-programmed playlists streaming through the speakers.  The dance floor was still relatively empty, only a few couples and one seemingly trashed bachelorette party dancing to the electronic beat. 

Sherlock approached the table and sat their drinks down.  Molly was surprised to see that he had ordered a regular pint.  “Surprised you didn’t insist on 100-year-old brandy or something of the sort,” she said as she took a sip of her drink.  Her surprise continued when rather than sitting across from her he slid into the booth right next to her, edging up close before picking up his beer and taking a good-sized gulp.

“Now, why would I order some pansy-ass garbage like that?” he asked, again donning the American accent with a sideways smile at Molly.  She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped at his uncharacteristic outburst.

“Where did you pick that up?” she asked, taking another sip as she tried to suppress her laughter.

“My hospital room television was stuck on MTV and John refused to hand me the remote as punishment for not telling him about Mary,” Sherlock took another swig of his drink and allowed himself a small chuckle.

“How is that by the way?”

“What?  John and Mary?  The gunshot wound?  Or MTV?”

“Oh, what the hell,” said Molly, leaning back against the seat, “all of them.”

Sherlock smiled and turned to continue scanning the room as he spoke.  “John and Mary are better now.  No doubt the impending terror of a new infant has them feeling closer than ever.  My gunshot wound is almost completely healed with the exception of a rather nasty scar on my chest and MTV is absolute rubbish.  I could actually feel my brain cells committing suicide as I watched.”

Molly smiled again, starting to feel the warmth of her drink spread to her limbs.  “I didn’t notice.”

“Notice what?” Sherlock said, craning his neck to get a better look at the bar.

“A rather nasty scar on your chest.  I didn’t even notice it.  I think you look lovely.”  It was like her mouth moved faster than her brain.  _Why in the world did you say that?  What in the world is in this drink?_

“Oh,” he said, turning back to look at Molly, his eyes flicking back and forth from her face to the table, “thank you.” His mouth played out the _th_ \- sound, as he was equally embarrassed by the admission as Molly.

“I just meant that…you’re very fit…and a scar doesn’t change the-“

“Molly, look-at the bar,” Sherlock’s eyes had shot back up and he now indicated with his head the direction of the bar.  Leaning against it was the man in the pictures Mycroft had shown them hours before.

“It’s Pike.  What do we do now?” Molly put her drink to the side and watched the man at the bar casually lean back and search the crowd conspicuously. 

“We wait and see what he does.  Who he talks to.” Sherlock picked up his drink and sipped, never taking his eyes off the man. 

“Well, that seems kind of inefficient.  Shouldn’t one of us go talk to him or something?”

“There’s always a chance I would be recognized.  Best to do our reconnaissance from afar.”

“What about me?  No one would recognize me,” Molly asked, also keeping her eyes firmly planted on the nervous-looking man at the bar.

“Oh, I’m sure that would go down well- ‘Excuse me, Sir, just wondering if you could give us some information on your secret plans?  That would be just terrific!  Off we pop!’” Sherlock raised his voice to a mocking pitch, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Molly.

Turning to look at him in a huff, Molly felt an irritated blush rise to her cheeks.  _That was then.  I’m different now._

“Care to make a wager?” She asked, now standing up and looking down at Sherlock.  He turned to look at her, making sure to keep Pike in his peripheral line of sight.

“Molly, what are you talking about?”

“I bet you I can get information out of him in five minutes or less, without him getting suspicious,”

Sherlock stared at her for a full three seconds before bursting into full-out laughter.

“You?  Mousy Molly Hooper?  Right.  You’re going to get information about a secret criminal network?” He continued laughing as he picked up his beverage and looked back to the man at the bar.

“If you win, you get full access to the morgue for a month.  _Carte blanche.”_

He turned again, clearly intrigued.  “And if you actually succeed, as unlikely as it is?”

 _Kiss me.  Hold me.  Take me on a date.  Introduce me to your parents.  Dance with me.  Hold my hand. Marry me for god’s sake._ “You have to say something nice.  About me.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face and snorted.  “You would give me a blank check in the morgue and all you’re fishing for is a compliment?”

“Not just a compliment.  Something genuine.  Besides, what are you worried about?  It’ll never happen, right?”  Molly picked up her drink, removed the tiny straw, and downed it in one gulp before slamming it down on the table.  “Start the timer.”

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Sherlock was vaguely aware of other things happening in the club around him, but at the moment he saw nothing but Molly Hooper, making her way toward the bar. 

_You have to say something nice.  About me._

_You’re amazing.  Wonderful.  Splendid.  I love-_

He was jerked out of his reverie at the sight of her sliding down the bar next to Pike.  He obviously couldn’t hear them from this far away, but he could deduce that she was introducing herself.  Pike gave her a quick glance up and down when she turned to the bar to order herself another drink and Sherlock felt a wave of anger as he caught Pike looking at her backside for a moment longer than the rest of her.  Molly turned back around and Pike smiled as Molly began animatedly talking to him.  Molly’s body language was decidedly _not Molly_ as she leaned into the unfamiliar man and flirted shamelessly, touching his arms and bending slightly to accentuate her cleavage.  Sherlock’s jaw nearly dropped when inside of two minutes Pike fished a piece of paper out of his coat and handed it to Molly.  She ducked her head over the side of the bar and extracted a pen, writing something on the slip of paper and handing it back.  Finally, she picked up her drink and started to walk away, turning to give Pike a silly little waggle of her fingers before making eye contact with Sherlock and indicating that he should follow her.

Following her past the dance floor and into a dimly lit hallway lined with couples doing a number of things that should have been private, Sherlock lost sight of Molly and began searching the dark alcoves.  He heard a sharp _psst_ and found her leaning into an unoccupied stretch of wall.

“London EC3 4AB, Tuesday, Midnight.” She said quickly.

Sherlock looked puzzled, prompting her to explain.  “The paper I wrote my number on-it had that address and time on it.  If he was coming here to drop off the information to potential members then that paper probably pertains to his mission.  The paper said ‘London EC3 4AB, Tuesday, Midnight.’” 

“You gave him your number?” Sherlock asked, slightly taken aback.  Molly rolled her eyes.

“I gave him Tom’s number.  Focus, Sherlock.”

“Right, sorry,” Sherlock closed his eyes and instantly began sifting through information.  What he came up with made no sense.

“That doesn’t make any sense.  That address is-“

“Uh-oh,” said Molly, her eyes toward the door leading back into the main room.  Following her gaze, Sherlock saw Pike making his way toward the doorway.  Turning to see what was behind them and finding the sign for the toilets, Sherlock saw that they were trapped.  To escape meant directly crossing paths with Pike, but staying meant he would have to walk right past them.  There was no guarantee he would be recognized, but he still didn’t want to leave it to chance.

“He can’t see you!” Molly said, starting to panic.  Her head swiveled in every direction trying to think of a way out.  The only thing she could see were the couples lining the walls making out like they were in the privacy of their own homes.  She looked back to Sherlock and saw that he wore a similar expression, trying to think of a way to go unnoticed.  An idea suddenly popped into Molly’s head, but she quickly threw it out considering its utter craziness.  _Crazy is about all you have going for you right now._   She made a decision and took a deep breath.

“Sherlock?” He turned and looked at her, his eyes wide.  “Just go with what I’m about to do, ok?”

Before the confused expression really had a chance to settle on his face, Molly grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him as hard as she could toward the wall.  He reached out and stopped himself by placing his hands on the wall on either side of Molly’s head in a sort of standing push-up position. 

“Molly, what are you-“

His sentence was stopped by Molly pulling his shirt farther and bringing his face to hers, locking him into a fierce kiss.  His entire body tensed and his eyes widened almost comically.  Molly narrowed her own eyes in a way that she hoped said _have you got a better plan?_ and was shocked when she saw Sherlock close his eyes and relax.  Her shock lasted only a moment when she saw Pike entering the hallway.  _Here goes_ she thought, bringing her hands up to twist into Sherlock’s hair and beginning to kiss him in earnest, parting her lips and using her tongue to explore his mouth.  She closed her eyes and tried to blend in with the other couples in the hallway, knowing that the more intense it appeared the less likely Pike was to look. Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized that Sherlock was kissing her back, with a kind of unpracticed ferocity.  _This is just acting, right?_

As soon as she saw Pike disappear into the loo, she broke away from Sherlock with a rather wet-sounding smack of lips.  She ducked under one of his arms that was against the wall and stepped behind him, looking back and forth down the hallway to ensure that the way was clear.

“Ok, he’s gone, let’s-Sherlock?”

Sherlock was still standing with his arms braced against the wall, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open.  His eyes opened slowly and he gave his head a brief shake.

“Come on-let’s get out of here before he comes back out.” Molly started to leave but turned to see that Sherlock still hadn’t moved from his position against the wall.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.  Yes.  I’m…fine.  Just…give me a second,” Sherlock huffed, sounding somewhat winded and raspy.  Molly, puzzled by his behavior, took another step forward before turning back and noticing Sherlock lower one hand and make a slight adjustment to the front of his jeans. 

_No…freaking…way._

Finally, he stood up straight and made his way down the hallway to meet Molly, stopping only long enough to wrap an arm around her waist and lead her quickly out the front door of the club.  As soon as they were out of earshot of the queue outside, they chanced a look at each other and immediately burst into uncontrollable laughter that continued all the way to Baker Street.

“All right, you earned your compliment from me, Molly Hooper.  That was the most utterly ridiculous plan of escape I have ever seen executed.”

“How is that a compliment?” she laughed, following him up the stairs to 221b.

“Because it was a bloody brilliant ridiculous plan,” he said, reaching into his pockets to retrieve his keys, only to drop them on the stoop.  Molly bent over at the same time he did to pick them up.  Both looking up at the same time, their faces directly next to each other, Molly could have sword she saw his eyes dart down once to glance at her lips before the shrill ring of his mobile shocked him into standing.

Without bothering to look at the screen, he answered by pressing the button for speakerphone.

“Mycroft.”

“Hello, brother dear-I see that your date went well.”

Molly instinctively turned and located a nearby CCTV camera and gave it a little wave.

“Good evening again, Miss Hooper.”

“We have information, Mycroft.  They are going to meet at-“

“The Tower of London, I heard,” he said.  Molly’s eyes went wide with anger at the thought that they had somehow been wiretapped without her knowledge before she noticed the same expression on Sherlock’s face.  If they had been bugged, he obviously hadn’t known about it.

“If you already knew, why bother calling?” Sherlock asked, irritated at the interruption.

“I just thought you would like to make your way to hospital.”

“Why ever would we do that?”  Molly did not fail to notice the use of the word _we_.

“Oh, I just thought you may want to meet Abigail Jane Watson, who was born at 10:52 this evening, is all.”  The line clicked off. 

Molly and Sherlock raised their heads and shared matching grins before Sherlock rushed back down to the pavement to hail a taxi.


	10. The Tiny Blogger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuing cyber-hug to my beta, Claudia, fierce ruler of the galaxy. And a huge "thanks!" to all of you lovely readers! Keep those comments and kudos coming-they fuel the fire of my soul. :)

Sherlock stood on the side of the oddly quiet street for all of fifteen seconds before deciding it would take too long to wait for a cab.  “We can just walk, come on!”

“Sherlock, it’s at least an hour’s walk.  There’s a tube station right down the street.”  Molly laughed lightly before setting her bag comfortably on her shoulder and starting down the steps, only to trip on the last one over her heels.  She landed with a twist of her ankle and plopped on the step, wincing.

At the sound of her small cry of pain, Sherlock whipped around and returned to the steps, sinking down to his knees next to her.  Molly had removed her black pumps and was grasping her ankle in pain.

“Is it broken?” asked Sherlock, his hands hovering over her ankle uncertainly.

“No, it’s probably just a sprain,” said Molly, her voice straining against her desire to swear loudly.  “Sorry, this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t tried to wear these heels.”

“No, it’s…fine.  They look good. I mean, on you.”  His eyes flitted up to Molly’s face just as she looked up.  They shared another awkward moment of eye contact before Sherlock took the shoe out of her hand and removed the other from her uninjured foot, sitting both on the stoop beside her.  Crossing his arms in front of him, he took both her hands, her right in his left and vice versa.

“Sherlock, what are you-“

She was cut off by his quick movement.  Twisting his body while remaining low to the ground, he pulled her arms up and around his neck.  He then stood effortlessly, pulling Molly gracefully into place on his back.  She made an undignified noise as Sherlock reached down to heft her legs up onto either side of his waist.

“What are you doing?” Molly finally finished asking, involuntarily clasping her hands together in front of Sherlock’s neck.

“I thought we established that we were taking the tube?” said Sherlock, bending his head backwards but not quite able to see her.

“Yes, but I can just stay here,” she said, getting somewhat embarrassed by the close contact.

“You need an x-ray of your ankle.”

“It’s just a sprain, I’ll be fine.”

“Molly, do you really wish to miss out on John Watson holding an infant and myself forced into feigned interest?” he said as he leaned down to pick up Molly’s discarded shoes on the stoop. 

“You are not feigning interest.  You can’t wait to see that little girl.”

“Human children are absolutely useless until they can start taking care of themselves.  Until then they are nothing but screaming, crying, defecating nightmares.”

He turned around enough to make eye contact, Molly settling herself in for a long ride.

“…and you can’t wait to meet her.” 

He smiled coyly.  “Absolutely.”

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John Watson held in his arms the perfect infant.  Ten fingers.  Ten toes.  Stunningly beautiful. 

“That girl is a mere two hours old and already has you wrapped around her finger,” said Mary wistfully from the bed.

“Takes after her Mum.  Only took her about two hours as well,” he smiled and returned to sit on the edge of the bed with Mary, both of them continuing to look down upon the sleeping baby.  After another ten minutes, there was a light knock on the door, followed by muffled giggling.  John handed Abigail back to Mary in order to answer the door.

It took about thirty seconds for John to process what he was seeing.  Sherlock Holmes ( _was that Sherlock?  What the hell happened to his hair?_ ) was carrying a rather flirtatiously dressed Molly Hooper piggy-back style, both with the most enormous grins on their faces. 

“What the hell happened to you two?” John asked at a whisper, not wanting to wake his daughter.

“Molly sprained her ankle.”  John looked down to see a pair of crutches leaning up against the wall.

“Yes.  That was obviously what I was referring to,” John responded, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock’s straight, highlighted hair.

“Just trust me when I say it was an interesting little mission Mycroft sent us on,” said Molly, tapping Sherlock on the head so he would let her down.  “We’ll explain everything later.  How’s Abigail?  And Mary?” 

“Oh, right!  They’re both brilliant!  Come in!” John ushered the two of them into the room, noticing the steadying arm Sherlock put around Molly’s waist as she hobbled over to the bed. 

“Molly, you look amazing!” said Mary, giving her a wink.  Molly’s hands flew to her mouth as she caught her first glimpse of the pink bundle in Mary’s arms, tears already pooling in her eyes.

“Me!  Look at you!  Just had a baby and absolutely gorgeous!”  Though Molly addressed Mary, her eyes did not stray from the bundle held in Mary’s arms.

Behind her Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, causing Mary to finally get a good look at him.

“And what do you call this look, Pauly-D?”  Mary and Molly both giggled.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock folded his arms and wrinkled his brow, trying to look uninterested in the now squirming pile of pink in Mary’s arms.

“Never mind.  Molly, would you like to hold her?” John asked, approaching the bed again. 

“Oh, yes please!” squealed Molly, accepting the infant like a pro and immediately beginning a gentle sway back and forth as she cooed softly to the little girl.  Sherlock tried to ignore a faint fluttering sensation in his chest at the sight, as he turned back to John.

“Decided against ‘Sherlock,’ I see.”

“It’s not a girl’s name,” smiled John, not taking his eyes off Molly. 

“Abigail Jane?” asked Sherlock, attempting to not sound eager himself.

“After my mum and grandmum,” answered John, a blissfully stupid smile plastered over his face.  The smile was strangely contagious as Sherlock felt the corners of even his mouth creeping up without warning.

Molly had her head down close to the baby girl’s face. “Oh, I just love that baby scent!  John, she looks just like you!”

“Human infants are genetically programmed to smell pleasant to reduce abandonment by their mothers.  Their appearances tend to mimic the father for the first months of life to reduce the question of parentage.”  Sherlock spoke without really looking at anyone.  When he did look away from the tiny girl’s face it was to see the three adults in the room staring at him.

“Of course, you’ll have to teach her the finer points of crime scene behavior-I’d love a new assistant once you’re too old,” Sherlock joked, relaxing his arms and switching his weight back and forth between legs restlessly.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll learn everything she needs to know about solving crimes from her godfather.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s, a look of sheer terror mixed with some sort of emotion he was unfamiliar with crossing his features. 

“John, I- Are you certain you want…?”  He stammered, unsure of how to proceed.

John rolled his eyes and grabbed Sherlock’s upper arm, pulling him over to where Molly was holding the baby.

“You’re my best friend.  Of course I’m certain.  Molly, do you mind?”  John asked, holding out his arms to receive Abigail.

“Not at all!” Molly smiled hugely, seeing what was about to happen.

“All right, Abby.  Time to meet your Uncle Sherlock.  Don’t worry, he’s all talk and no bite.”

Before Sherlock had any chance to protest, John placed the slightly wakened child into Sherlock’s arms, guiding him to support her head and not letting go until she was comfortably tucked against his body.  Throughout the process Sherlock had made several small squeaks and stammers, but stopped the moment she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“Look at you, Sherlock, you’re a natural,” said Mary, smiling and giving Molly another wink.

Abigail, now fully awake, focused her blue eyes directly upon Sherlock’s, who hadn’t looked away yet.  One tiny fist broke free from the blankets to reach up, and instinctively Sherlock brought his free arm up to offer his index finger for her to grip. 

“Well, what do you think, Mr. Consulting Detective?  Is she a genius?”  John asked, sitting back down on the bed beside his wife, shooting her and Molly a joking look.

“She’s perfect.”

All three of the others glanced up in surprise at Sherlock’s words.  A tear finally worked its way down Molly’s cheek and Mary took John’s hand in hers.

“What?” Sherlock asked, looking up, suddenly confused.  “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, mate,” replied John, “that was actually good.”


	11. Double Agent

The sky outside the hospital window had just begun to lighten in the pre-dawn hours as Molly Hooper found herself in somewhat of a trance. 

“Looks like the excitement was too much for the boys,” Mary’s voice brought her back to reality.

John had long-since fallen asleep on the small armchair next to Mary’s bed as she continued to hold the now wide-awake Abigail, who was blissfully quiet after her most recent feeding.  Several hours earlier, Molly had sat on the small sofa next to Sherlock, as the pair of them recounted their earlier adventures at the Ministry of Sound, an ice pack resting on Molly’s slightly swollen ankle.  Molly couldn’t help but notice a few particular details being left out of Sherlock’s retelling. 

It was now that Molly found herself leaning against the arm of the sofa with the rather heavy warmth of Sherlock draped over her lap.  It was in the middle of a conversation with Mary about the benefits of jogging strollers that she noticed him dozing off next to her, his body slowly working its way to the side until his full weight was resting against her shoulder.  A quick repositioning of her arm allowed the two of them to comfortably lounge on the seats, his head in her lap as she gently wound her hand back and forth through his hair.

“Yes, I suppose it was,” Molly finally responded, smiling wistfully at the sleeping face of Sherlock.  His breathing was deep and even, with every now and then a small snore working its way into the air.

She looked up at Mary, who had apparently been studying John’s sleeping form as well, and they shared a quiet giggle.

“What have you done to that boy?” Mary asked, raising her eyebrows and nodding her head towards Sherlock.

“What?” asked Molly, her hand stilling in Sherlock’s hair, eliciting a small noise from him as he shifted in his sleep to bring his legs up onto the sofa, curling into a position that seemed much too small for his tall form. 

“I have seen Sherlock do a lot of things- some of which I really wish I hadn’t seen-but I’ve definitely never seen him fall asleep in someone’s lap like a kitten.”

Molly rolled her eyes but there was a smile on her lips.  “I suppose that’s the downside of never sleeping normally.  I’ve actually seen him fall asleep on a mortuary table before.” 

“And why was he on a mortuary table, _Doctor Hooper?”_ Mary said with mock seduction, causing a slight blush in Molly’s cheeks.

“Nothing like that, I assure you.  Sherlock Holmes has absolutely zero interest in a relationship.  With anybody.  Especially me.”

Mary hesitated for just a moment, before continuing with caution.  “What makes you say that?”

Molly looked down at Sherlock, who had brought up a hand to circle her knees, hugging them closer together.  His hair had begun to re-curl itself, falling errantly into his eyes.  She brushed a stray curl out of his face before answering.

“Before,” she looked up to make eye-contact with Mary, unsure if she would understand without elaboration, “before…he jumped-I tried several times to get him to…to even notice me.  He would flirt when it was convenient for him to get something out of the morgue, but for the most part he thought of me as a stammering imbecile.”

“From what I’ve heard John say, he was actually nicer to you than most people,” Mary switched Abigail into a new position, as the tiny baby had started to squirm.

“Well, whatever it was, it was deserved.  I _was_ a stammering imbecile before he left.”

“And now?”

Molly sighed, thinking back to all she had gone through, re-opening old wounds.  “It was easier with him gone.  It was like he was really dead.  Do you know I actually cried when he left?  Then I met Tom and I thought I was where I wanted to be and--“

“--And then he came back.”

Molly blinked at Mary, hoping she would understand it as an affirmation.

“What happened to Tom?”  Mary asked.

“I didn’t think it was fair.”  Molly answered, resuming her lazy strokes of Sherlock’s now fully re-curled hair. 

Mary scrunched up her forehead in question.  “What wasn’t fair?”

“It wasn’t fair to marry him when I was-am- in love with someone else.”

Mary nodded silently, unable to keep a slight smirk off her face. 

“What?” questioned Molly, her eyebrows raised, preparing herself to be mocked.

“Nothing,” replied Mary, shaking her head.  “It’s just…I think you underestimate the emotional capacity of Sherlock Holmes.”

“What do you mean?” She briefly stopped the motion of her hands as Sherlock began making light mumbling noises in his sleep.

“I mean…” Mary hesitated, unsure if she was prepared to play double-agent again so soon, “I mean that Sherlock is more interested in a relationship with you than you think he is.  In that he is interested.  _Quite_ interested.”

Molly rolled her eyes in disbelief before looking down at Sherlock again, whose noises had become slightly louder.

“I’m serious!” Mary whispered loudly, not wanting to upset the baby in her arms (or the other two currently sleeping). 

“What are you talking about?” asked Molly, doubt seeping into her tone.

“…Seventeen…” mumbled Sherlock, grasping Molly’s knees a little tighter.

Both women giggled softly before Mary continued.  “What would you say if I told you that I know from a reliable source that Sherlock Holmes is actually in love with you too?  And that that reliable source happens to be currently having a dream about seventeen of something?”

“I would say that I can’t wait until I have a baby so I can get some of whatever you’re on to think that,” chuckled Molly, resuming her gentle petting of Sherlock’s hair absentmindedly. 

“I know I have been less than trustworthy in the past, but I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”  It had actually been Sherlock’s idea to inform Molly of the truth in what had happened with his shooting.  At the time, John and Mary had been uncertain as to why this was important, but her lack of surprise indicated that she had deduced most of what had happened on her own.

Molly’s chuckles died down a bit before she responded.  “What on earth makes you think that he has suddenly completely changed?”

“Haven’t you noticed how different he acts around you?”

“Well,” Molly began, her smile lowering as she began to doubt herself again.  “He’s been different ever since…I mean, he came to stay with me for a few days…after the…fall.  I stopped being so nervous around him, and he started to act…I don’t know…more…human?  I guess.”  Molly’s eyes darted back and forth as she remembered the nights spent with Sherlock huddled on her sofa, the long conversations into the night about what he had to do to dismantle Moriarty’s network and how he would come back one day.  She shook her head in a hazy attempt to wipe away the memory.  “ _I’m_ different.  He’s just reacting to that.”

“Molly, are you blind?  You picked an eyelash off his face this morning and his heart almost stopped.  Take it from someone who has been the cause of that before-that man is head-over-heels for you.  He just doesn’t know what to do about it.”

Molly scoffed before quieting and lowering her gaze to Sherlock’s sleeping form on her lap.  “I wanted him to feel that way for so long, but I’m not going to throw myself at him.”

“So make him throw himself at you.”  Mary gently began to rock Abigail, whose vocalizations were humorously similar to Sherlock’s at the moment.   Molly gave her an uncertain look.

“If you’re willing to commit yourself to a few simple _experiments_ ,” Mary inclined her head towards Sherlock, indicating how he would approve of her word usage.  “You will have him begging for mercy before you know it.”

“Ok, Boss,” Molly smiled as she playfully covered Sherlock’s ears.  “What do I do?”


	12. Consulting Pillow

“So, think you can handle that?” asked Mary, the early-morning light now streaming through the hospital window.

“I don’t know.  I mean, it _is_ Sherlock-he’s bound to see what I’m up to, isn’t he?” Molly had continued her motions of carding through Sherlock’s hair as he slept, stopping only when he fidgeted or said another nonsense statement in his sleep.

“…don’t be stupid, John…” Sherlock’s insult was muffled from his position in Molly’s lap.

“There are a lot of things that make Sherlock Holmes different,” Mary began, “but there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, and that’s that he’s still a man.  Trust me-you do what I told you to do and he’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand by Christmas.”

Molly couldn’t help the yawn that escaped as she nodded.  “Ok.  I trust you.  But I still think it’s mental.”

“You won’t think that when you’re wrapped around a consulting detective.”

“Mary!  There’s a child in the room!” Molly giggled before letting out another yawn.

“Molly, go home and get some rest.  You look dead on your feet.”

“I suppose I should.  I’ve been up for nearly thirty hours.  Sherlock-“ 

Molly gently shook his shoulders.

“VATICAN CAMEOS!” screamed Sherlock as he violently shifted forward, falling off the sofa entirely.  He looked around in confusion with red-rimmed eyes before shaking his head and seeming to remember where he was.  At his rather loud awakening, John, too, was jolted out of his slumber, though his alarm faded quickly with the opportunity to laugh at Sherlock sprawled out on the floor in front of him. 

“Sorry, Molly, I should have warned you that Sleeping Beauty here can be a little jumpy when you wake him from his naps.”  John smiled sleepily, standing to place a kiss on Mary and Abigail’s foreheads.

Sherlock sent a seething look to John before awkwardly rising to his feet and stretching his arms high above his head.  Molly couldn’t help but notice the small strip of skin bared between the bottom of his uncharacteristic polo shirt and the top of his jeans before a hand was in front of her face offering to help her up.  Taking it, she rose slowly, tentatively attempting to put weight on her injured ankle.  Her long conversation with Mary had taken her mind off the pain, but upon standing she began to feel the throbbing anew. 

“You need rest.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, reaching around the corner to fetch her crutches.  “I’m sure Mycroft will allow a few more hours before gracing us with his presence.”

“Right.  I’m knackered.  Bye Mary, John-give Abby a kiss for me when she wakes up!”

John smiled as Mary answered.  “Of course.  Have a good night, and good luck!”  She winked as Molly and Sherlock left the room.

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Sherlock found his mind racing in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. A never-ending parade of thoughts kept cycling through his head: The club, _the kiss_ , the Tower of London, Moriarty, Pike, Abigail Watson, sleeping in Molly’s lap, Molly’s hand in his hair, _the kiss!_ , and Mycroft being meddlesome.

It was during the fifth or sixth round of these thoughts that he noticed Molly beginning to slump in the seat next to him.  The crutches had fallen to the floor of the cab and now Molly had taken up an awkward slouch against the window.  After a decent kip at the hospital, he was good to go for a few days, but Molly had been going solid for over twenty-four hours.  Knowing she would be incredibly sore if he allowed her to stay in her slumped position all the way back to Baker Street, he gently pulled on her shoulders in an attempt to get her to sit upright.  Unfortunately, Molly’s unconscious form took this as an invitation and rather than simply placing her head back against the seat, she hefted her weight in the other direction, bringing her head down to rest in the space between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, her left hand twisting his shirt into her fist. 

Sherlock froze on the spot, uncertain of what to do with his still outstretched arms.  Looking down and ensuring that she was still asleep, he allowed his left arm to fall behind Molly, his hand on her shoulder, holding her lightly in place against him. 

The rest of the cab ride was silent aside from Molly’s soft snores and the almost audible sound of Sherlock’s brain whizzing about.  Pulling up to 221B, it became evident that getting Molly into the house without waking her was going to be nothing short of impossible, so Sherlock gently roused her as he extricated himself from her grip.  Tossing some notes to the driver, he guided Molly from the cab and helped her hobble up the steps to the door. 

As soon as he had the door open, he turned to allow Molly through first, turning just in time to catch her as she wobbled a little too far on her good foot and nearly tumbled down the three steps to the sidewalk.

“You are not having the best of luck with these stairs tonight,” said Sherlock, pocketing his keys and glancing inside to the seventeen steps that awaited them to enter the flat.  Molly made a faint hum of what could have been agreement or insult before her eyelids closed and she teetered again ominously. 

“Right, then.  Come here.” Checking to see that she was stable for an instant, Sherlock placed the crutches inside the door and turned back to Molly, bending at the waist to place his arms behind her head and knees, picking her up effortlessly.  Molly made what she hoped was a noise of disapproval before noticing that she no longer had to support her own head and that Sherlock’s chest was so unbelievably warm and comfortable. 

With a sigh, Sherlock looked down with amazement at Molly’s sleeping form in his arms and began the trek up the stairs to the flat.  If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the feeling of Molly’s face nuzzling up next to his chest, he certainly would have noticed Mrs. Hudson peeking her head out of her door silently, only to give a quick squeak of delight at the sight of the two of them before rushing off to phone Mrs. Turner.


	13. Phase One

Molly Hooper woke several hours later to the throb of her ankle informing her that her painkillers had worn off.  With a huff she rolled over and stuffed her head underneath the pillow to try to block out the light seeping through the curtains, resigning herself to trying to fall back to sleep.  _Wait._ Raising her head from beneath the pillow she allowed her eyes to slowly adjust to the light of the room-the room that was _not_ hers. 

Thinking back to the night previous, she remembered falling asleep in the cab and Sherlock carrying her up the stairs into the flat, but after that her mind was an unhelpfully blank.  _He put me in his bed._ Molly flipped herself over immediately to find the other side of the bed empty then inwardly chastised herself for being ridiculous.  Sherlock had obviously not been asleep last night, as was his typical fashion while on a case.  He must have carried her to his room to avoid having to heft her up another flight of stairs. 

She flopped back down on the pillows and began to survey the room of which she had never before seen.  She was lying in a queen size bed with simple white linens; the duvet lay crumpled on the floor, though whether she did that or it was there to begin with, she wasn’t sure.  A framed print of the periodic table and an engraved rapier donned the walls, though the rest of the furniture all reeked of normality.  Molly wasn’t sure what she expected of the detective’s bedroom; perhaps mad scientist equipment or pickled organs in jars lining the shelves, but this certainly wasn’t it.  Peering to the digital clock on the bedside table, she saw that it was nearly midday, and decided it was probably pertinent to get up. 

Untangling herself from the sheets, Molly saw that she was still wearing the outfit from the night before, albeit with her shoes removed and the wrapping around her ankle.  The bathroom was right outside Sherlock’s bedroom, and provided he wasn’t sitting directly behind the door, she figured she would be able to make it without being seen.  _Right.  Phase One.  Initiate._   Opening the closet door she quickly found exactly what she wanted.  _That damn purple shirt._ Taking it off its hanger, she quickly turned toward the bureau.  This part would be trickier.  Taking her chances with the top drawer, she opened it silently and was greeted with the most ridiculously organized sock index she had ever seen.  Closing it, she opened the second.  _Jackpot._   Taking the top pair of black boxer shorts, she began to close the drawer, but something bright red caught her eye.  Stopping momentarily to check over her shoulder just in case Sherlock had managed to teleport behind her, she shifted the contents of the drawer to reveal a small red box.  _My Dearest Sherlock XOXO._   It was the box from the disastrous Christmas party nearly three years ago.  _Why had he kept it?_   Not wanting to get caught snooping through his underwear drawer, she quickly closed it and headed for the door.  Taking a deep breath and willing herself to be brave, she opened the door just a crack to reveal Sherlock’s back to her in the kitchen, allowing her to sneak into the bathroom unseen with the bundle of borrowed clothes.

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Sherlock had been in his mind palace for several hours, trundling through the same information over and over.  He just barely missed Molly going from his bedroom to the bathroom minutes earlier before returning to his experiment in the kitchen.  Adjusting his goggles, he reclaimed his spot kneeling on the kitchen table and adding acid to the inside of the toaster.  If someone had asked him what he was doing, he would have begrudgingly replied with his standard “It’s an experiment,” but the truth was that he was honestly not paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was doing as his mind filtered through everything he had experienced in the past two days.

It was due to his deep thoughts that he was completely unaware of Molly Hooper silently approaching behind him, which was why when she bid him “good morning” he nearly fell off the table in surprise.

“I don’t suppose that can still make something akin to breakfast?”  She asked, in mock horror, staring at the now slightly steaming toaster.

Sherlock went to remove his goggles as he hopped off the table, only to have them snap back onto his face painfully as he caught sight of her full figure.  Molly Hooper stood before him wearing his purple dress shirt, unbuttoned dangerously low, with the sleeves rolled up and the hemline hitting somewhere in the middle of her thigh, which was covered only by a pair of his own pants.  Her hair was wet and fell over her shoulders freely as she toweled it dry.  Every thought that was currently in Sherlock’s head was suddenly gone. Instead, it was all he could do to concentrate on basic functions such as breathing and blinking.  One at a time.  Both at once was proving too difficult at the moment.

“Hope you don’t mind, I borrowed some clothes.”

The sound that emerged from Sherlock’s mouth was intended to be “Not at all, help yourself,” but sounded instead like a cross between a cat being strangled and someone that had just been punched in the gut.

“And thanks for letting me sleep in your bed last night, I can’t imagine how awful it must have been to lug me up all those stairs.”

 _Shake your head, Sherlock, you can manage that._ Sherlock shook his head to indicate that it was not a chore to place her in his bed, though he didn’t care to relegate that the real chore had been not climbing into it with her.

“You’re awfully quiet, this morning.  Something new in the case?” Molly asked as she leaned towards Sherlock to look at the now more forcibly smoking toaster.  She did not fail to notice his sharp intake of breath when her shoulder just barely nudged his chest.

“No!” he yelled, a little too loud, causing Molly to shrink back a bit.  “I mean, no-nothing new with the case.  This was just to keep me occupied while I went through the information in my head.”  He removed his goggles and leaned against the table near the toaster before continuing.  “The Tower of London makes no sense.  He’s been there before, we know he can infiltrate it, so there’s nothing to prove.”

“Unless it’s not him.”

“What?” Sherlock looked up at Molly, confusion knitting his brow.

“You said before that you weren’t even sure if this was Moriarty.  He blew his brains out.  Kind of hard to fake that, right?  Even you would struggle with it.”  Sherlock tried not to smile at her macabre humor, but failed miserably as she continued.  “Maybe it’s just a copycat?”

“Or maybe it’s a distraction.  While I’m busy trudging around the Crown Jewels whoever this is blows up half of London.”  He ruffled his hands through his hair in frustration and replaced them on the table.  Molly reached over and placed her hand on top of his.

“You’ll figure it out.  I know you will.”  She blinked and he could have sworn he saw her eyes flick once to his mouth and back.  Grasped with sudden bravery he leaned in slightly, unable to see whether she returned the act due to the toaster choosing that moment to blow up directly in his face.

“Sherlock!” screamed Molly, running to his side of the table. 

Sherlock stood in his exact same position; eyes scrunched shut, his face now black with ash.  Giving a feeble cough, he brought his hands up tentatively to wipe his eyes.

“In hindsight, not one of my more successful experiments,” he said as another series of coughs tried to clear soot out of his lungs. 

Molly rushed to the sink to wet a dishtowel that she hoped was not contaminated with anything disgusting.  “Hold still,” she said as she grabbed his arm and turned him to face her. 

Using one hand to hold the back of his head, she began gently wiping the ash off of his eyes, being careful not to irritate them even more.  “Just another reason why we wear safety goggles in the lab,” she said, his eyes starting to return to focus.

“I had them on until you came in,” he said with a rough edge to his voice.  He coughed once more to clear his throat.

“Sherlock Holmes, what am I going to do with you?” she asked as her free hand came down to stroke his cheek.  His eyes widened slightly as he looked back up at her.  This time, it was Molly who leaned slightly forward.

“Well, I don’t suggest blowing him up.  I tried that when he was two and as you can see he’s rather disagreeable post-explosion.” Mycroft’s voice caused Molly and Sherlock to both jump and step away from each other, Molly smiling shyly and Sherlock’s slight blush hidden behind his dirty face.  Embarrassment quickly shifted to his normal irritation. 

“You didn’t try to blow me up.  You put me in oven and convinced me you were turning it on.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Stopped you from coming into my room, didn’t it?” leered Mycroft, raising one eyebrow.

“For a few days,” Sherlock mumbled, snatching the towel from Molly’s grip and using it to recklessly wipe off his face.

“I’m just going to pop upstairs, I need to get some of my own clothes,” said Molly, deftly hopping around Mycroft and bounding up the stairs to her bedroom.

Sherlock spared a wistful look at her retreating form in his clothes before settling his face into its usual sneer reserved specifically for Mycroft.

“What do you want?  I’m busy,” he said as he picked up the toaster and began removing it to the bin.

“Yes, I can see that,” Mycroft drawled, casually leaning against his umbrella and turning his nose up at the sight of the now slightly-smoking bin.  “Do you think it wise, that you waste your time…dabbling,” his eyes indicated in the toaster’s direction, “when there is such an important case afoot?”

“I am not... _dabbling_.  Whatever it is you mean by that.” Sherlock used the towel to wipe what he could of the soot off his face before throwing it into the sink and slumping into his chair by the fireplace. 

“I simply mean that you seem distracted.”

“If this is some misguided attempt to get me away from Molly Hooper you can stop right--“

“Not at all, little brother.  Quite the contrary,” Mycroft moved to sit in John’s chair, eliciting a glare from Sherlock before a flash of confusion passed his features.  “As a matter of fact, consider this my blessing.  I think Miss Hooper is a wonderful asset to your case.”

“ _Doctor_ Hooper is not an asset, she’s my…friend.”  Sherlock cast his eyes down on the floor, as though he had just made the most humiliating admission possible.

“Ah, yes, as we discussed.  You still think that wise.  Just remember what I’ve taught you, Sherlock.  Caring is not an advantage.”  He made to get up and walk toward the door, but Sherlock’s mumbled replay could still be heard.

“Sometimes it’s not a choice.”


	14. Welcome Home

“Mycroft, this is ridiculous.”  Sherlock practically snorted from the backseat of the blacked-out vehicle as his brother typed furiously on his laptop. 

“Red team, initiate,” Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s jabs as the team descended into the Tower of London’s front gates.  The video feed linked directly to the laptop, showing a completely deserted area, the entire facility having been evacuated earlier in the day. 

“Nobody is going to show up with all your dogs here, surely even you can figure that out,” Sherlock sneered, trying his best to not look interested in the video on the screen.

“And certainly you can ascertain that this evening was simply a ruse to distract you or send some sort of message,” Mycroft raised the phone back to his ear. “Blue team, go.”

Sherlock huffed and opened the door, defiantly walking toward the entrance himself.  He knew Mycroft was right, nothing was happening this evening, but if Moriarty had intended to give him a message, he was determined to receive it before his brother’s entourage had a chance to screw it up.  Moving behind the team of armored guards, he commandeered one of the listening devices and stuck it in his ear. 

“Are you quite finished in there, Mycroft?  Can I look now?”

“Sherlock, I was right.  It’s a message.  For you.”

Mycroft’s tone was enough to stop Sherlock from making a snarky reply as his blood suddenly chilled.  “What is it, Mycroft?”

“I think you should probably see for yourself.”

Pushing his way into the room that housed the Crown Jewels, Sherlock was momentarily uncertain as to what had his brother so rattled.  That was until he noticed all of the guards, weapons lowered, glancing up to the ceiling.  Peering up, he couldn’t help a soft gasp.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft buzzed in his ear, “Miss Hooper is getting out of her car-she’s coming after you.”

“No, Mycroft!  She can’t see-“

“Sherlock? What’s-“ 

Molly’s voice cut off in a terrified shriek, her eyes catching on the sight before everyone. 

Sherlock immediately ran to her side, pulling her head down to his chest to block her vision.  “Don’t look Molly.  Don’t look.”

Molly’s former fiancé Tom was hanging from the rafters, suspended by garish hooks through his skin, his unseeing eyes staring into the distance.  Blood stained his bare chest and the front of his pants before ending in a large sign with ornate lettering.  _WELCOME BACK, SHERLOCK._ Inside the “O” of his name was a bright yellow smiley-face.

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Sherlock delicately placed a steaming cup of tea into Molly’s outstretched hand as she continued to stare blankly at the wall before her.  With her other hand she grasped tighter the blanket he had placed around her shoulders after she had been deposited on the sofa in Baker Street in a daze.  He hovered momentarily above her before starting back toward the kitchen, uncertain how to proceed. 

“It’s ok, Sherlock, I know this makes you uncomfortable,” Molly said flatly, not bringing her eyes up. 

“What?” he tentatively stepped back into the room.

“Crying people.  Go do what you need to do, I’ll be fine here,” she placed both hands around her teacup and sniffed once, willing the tears to not reappear. 

“Actually, Mycroft’s ordered me to stay put,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “but even if he hadn’t I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Molly looked up then, revealing her reddened eyes and several tear tracks down her cheeks.  She looked hollow.  “This is my fault.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he sank next to her on the sofa, cautiously placing an arm on her back and rubbing absent-minded circles with his fingers.

“Molly-this was a sick message to me, it has nothing to do with you.”

“It was Tom, Sherlock.  He did it because he knows I helped you.  This would have never happened if I hadn’t--“

Sherlock took her tea and placed it on the coffee table.  Placing one hand on each of her wrists he turned her to face him. 

“Molly-for what you did for me…I can never repay you.  I don’t know why whoever this is chose Tom to get my attention but what I do know is that I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you, and you have never done anything to deserve the absolute shit I have put you through.”

Molly’s eyes widened at his unexpected cursing, the tears barely staying put on the edges of her lids. 

“I lied to you,” she whispered.  When Sherlock didn’t respond, she continued.  “I was never engaged to Tom.  We went out a few times.  But--“

“I know,” Sherlock interrupted.  Molly’s face froze in disbelief, silently asking him to elaborate.  Sherlock sighed before releasing her hands and running his fingers through his own hair.

“When I came back and saw you in the locker room at Bart’s, all your old pictures were still hanging in your locker.  Some pictures were as recent as a few weeks prior.  Surely if you were engaged some pictures of your fiancé too would be adorning your space.  That and the fact that while you were _not_ wearing an engagement ring that night you were, in fact, wearing a small diamond ring belonging to your mother on your right hand.  The same ring that reappeared several days later on your left when I asked for your help solving crimes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?  Or correct everybody?” she whispered again, barely audible.

“It wasn’t my place to say anything.  I figured you had your reasons and I respected that.”

Molly rose from the sofa wordlessly and Sherlock dropped his head to his hands, prepared for her to not speak to him for a while.  Instead, he felt his head lifted enough to face Molly, who had leaned down to lay a soft kiss on his cheek.  “Do you mind if I sleep in your bed again tonight?  Mine feels too far away.”  She clutched the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“Not at all.  Get some sleep.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Of course I understand if you would like Miss Hooper to take a brief vacation.”

“No.  She’s to stay here, I don’t want her life interrupted by this,” Sherlock had resumed his pacing of the living room long after Molly set off for bed, and Mycroft’s presence was doing nothing to calm his nerves. 

“Of course, I will upgrade her security then?”  It wasn’t really a question, but Mycroft made it seem as such to attempt some conversation from his near-frantic brother.

“If I’m not present there is to be someone on her at all times,” Sherlock put his hands on his hips and stopped by the fireplace, forcing himself to take a deep breath.  “Whoever this is we’re dealing with is communicating on his own terms,”

“His?” Mycroft inquired.

“Balance of probability,” replied Sherlock, continuing with little hesitance. “We’ll have to play along, which means a bit of a break, I should think.”

“Indeed.  I agree.  Perhaps you would like to take a bit of a holiday yourself.  Christmas is just nearly two weeks away, I know Mummy and Dad would love to see you, and I-”

“I want to do something for Molly.”  Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow incredulously.  “Are you about to give me another talk of ‘goldfish?’”

“Molly is not a goldfish.” Sherlock spat, narrowing his eyes at Mycroft.

“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft softened.  “What did you have in mind?”

Suddenly Sherlock’s shoulders went lax and he threw himself into his chair, face in his hands.  “I don’t know.  I have no idea.  I just want to do something…nice.”

Heavy silence filled the space between them until Sherlock finally looked up impatiently.  “Well?”

“Well what?” asked Mycroft, a bored look giving way to that of a confused one.

“What should I do?”

“Just to be clear, you _are_ asking me for advice?” said Mycroft, the slightest hint of a smile edging his features.

“Aren’t big brothers supposed to give little brothers girl advice?”  Sherlock deadpanned.

“Not really my area, Sherlock,” Mycroft raised another eyebrow suggestively.

“Yes, I know that.  I just…I want her to be happy.”

Silence again.  “Shut up.”  Sherlock said, standing and reclaiming his spot by the fireplace.

“I didn’t say anything,” The smile on Mycroft’s face was dangerously close to becoming a smirk.

“You were thinking it.  And the answer is no.” 

“Awfully lot of effort for someone you don’t love.”

“Mycroft, are you going to help me or not?”  Sherlock turned to him, a look on his face that reminded Mycroft of the ones he used to give to get out of trouble as a child.

“Oh, all right.  I have an inkling as to what Miss Hooper would like out of this coming holiday.  I’ll send some supplies and instructions in the coming days.”

Sherlock smiled a genuine smile and turned back to the fireplace as Mycroft made his way to the door.

“Oh, and Sherlock?”  Sherlock turned back to glance at him, “Try not to cock it up, will you?”


	15. A Very Hooper Christmas

Molly Hooper was absolutely exhausted.  It was Christmas night, she had just finished an eleven hour shift, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch, eat leftover Chinese takeaway, and feel sorry for herself.  She had known for ages that Sherlock would not participate in anything as _inane_ as Christmas traditions, but it still left her with a slightly empty feeling.  As she opened the door to the flat she was greeted by the muffled sounds of Sherlock’s violin.  _Christmas carols?_   True, he had an extensive repertoire, but it still seemed out of character for him to show any sign of recognizing a holiday which he considered to be “commercially exploitative religious hokum.” Hopefully he would be so caught up she could sneak away to her room before he began his tirade on the stockings she insisted on hanging from the mantle that morning.

As she opened the door to the flat, her eyes went wide and her hand moved to cover her mouth as her bag fell from her arm to the floor, causing Sherlock to stop playing in order to turn and face her.  The entire room was lit by hundreds of twinkling lights, perfectly framing the beautifully trimmed Christmas tree in the corner.  Various strings of tinsel and sprigs of holly seemed to have been haphazardly thrown in all corners, and the roaring fire in the hearth added a level of festivity Molly hadn’t experienced since she was a child.  Hot tears flooded her eyes as she finally looked to Sherlock, his genuine smile turning quickly to concern as he saw her tears.  He put his violin hastily into the case and closed the distance between them slowly.

“Molly, I’m sorry, I was trying to-“

“Sherlock, it’s perfect!” She said as she threw her arms around his neck in a bone-crushing hug.  Sherlock huffed as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs, uncertain how to react.  He brought his arms down to awkwardly pat Molly’s back just as she pulled away, wiping at the tears in her eyes and looking around the room once more.

“Where did you get all this?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She looked around one more time, her eyes finally coming to rest on Sherlock’s.

“Nobody has ever done anything so nice for me before.  Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded and looked down, before also bringing his eyes to rest on Molly’s. She moved the tiniest bit forward.

“Molly…“ he began nervously.

“Yes?” She moved a little closer.

“Do you have plans for tonight?” Molly thought she heard the slightest shake in his voice, but decided to ignore it.

“No, why?” She smiled.  _I have no idea where this is going, but I like it._

“Well, I thought we could invite everyone over for Christmas drinks.  You know, give me a chance to make up for how bad I messed up at the last party?”

 _Not quite what I was expecting, but I’ll take it._   “That sounds lovely, Sherlock-but do you really think everybody will be able to come over on such short notice?”

“I’m really glad you agreed to this, Molly,” there was a knock on the door, “because I _kind of_ already invited them.”  He smiled tentatively, unsure of how she would react, but was rewarded with a warm smile and gentle hit on the shoulder.

“You clot.  I’m going to go change.  Be down in a tic.” 

He sighed as he watched her fly up the stairs just as the sounds of Mrs. Hudson greeting guests floated upstairs.  Within five minutes, John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even Anderson and his wife occupied the flat.  Sherlock had just finished pouring Mrs. Hudson a drink when Molly emerged from upstairs, wearing a simple black dress with her hair down over her shoulders.  It wasn’t as fancy as her dress from their previous Christmas party, but with her new-found confidence and demeanor Sherlock thought she couldn’t look better.  He hadn’t realized he was staring until Mrs. Hudson loudly cleared her throat and stamped on his foot, smiling coyly when he looked at her with irritation.

Mycroft was the last to arrive, much to everyone’s surprise. 

“Yes, I invited him.  Aren’t you supposed to reach out to the homely at Christmas?” Sherlock replied when John smirked smugly at his arrival. 

“I take it the decorations went over well, brother dear?” Mycroft said in passing once everyone was mingling happily.  Sherlock gave him an uncharacteristic sideways smile that seemed to sneak past him.  Mycroft raised an eyebrow, walking away and continuing to sip his drink.

The evening went by rather smoothly, with everyone, even Sherlock, enjoying drinks.  Laughs were had by all as Lestrade slowly stepped over the “one too many” line and began to dance with a similarly intoxicated Mrs. Hudson.  Sherlock, his face feeling pleasantly pink after a few drinks himself, stole several glances across the room at Molly, who met his eyes with a smile before going back to watching Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson dance as they were joined by John and Mary next.  Gathering all his courage, Sherlock popped one of the hors d’oeuvres from Anderson’s wife in his mouth as he strode confidently across the room to Molly. 

“May I have this dance, my lady?” he said with mock elegance, bowing low and offering his hand to Molly. 

“Why of course, kind sir,” she giggled, allowing him to take her hand and waist and spin her around.  They both laughed as he led her between John, Mary, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, purposefully bumping into each other as they passed.  Sherlock felt his face flush with laughter and a slight sweat broke across his brow as they all finished with a chuckle. 

“Sherlock, how much have you had to drink?”  John said with a laugh, sitting in his old chair, Mary sitting on the arm. 

“Yeah, your face is really red,” said Lestrade, taking a place on Sherlock’s chair, still smiling at Mrs. Hudson warmly. 

“Not that much,” Sherlock said, a slight wheeze to his voice as he pulled on the collar of his shirt, “is it hot in here?”

Mycroft raised an inquisitive eyebrow and turned to look at the tray of hors d’oeuvres near Sherlock’s previous seat.  “Pamela,” he said, addressing Anderson’s wife, “what, may I ask, are the ingredients to this lovely dish?” he indicated toward the tray.

“Oh, well, there’s tahini, chickpeas, cayenne pepper, lemon juice--“

“Almonds?” interrupted Mycroft, rising from his seat purposefully.

“Yes, some crushed almonds on the top of--“

Before she could finish her sentence Sherlock began gasping and coughing, using the back of Lestrade’s chair for leverage as he slowly sank to the floor.  Mycroft was there before he hit, taking Sherlock’s hands away from his throat and holding his head forward.  Sherlock’s eyes had become completely bloodshot and gaped wide at Mycroft as his wheezing became more desperate.  His hands flew up to his brother’s wrists on either side of his face.

“Relax, Sherlock, you’ll be fine.  Dr. Watson-his bureau, top left drawer all the way in the back. _Quickly_.”

John jumped up immediately and ran to Sherlock’s bedroom.  All eyes were suddenly on Sherlock, who had begun to shake violently as tears seeped quickly from both eyes.

“You’re going to be okay, Sherlock-.  Just breathe slowly…breathe.” Mycroft chanted in a calm mantra, as Sherlock continued to stare him down with wild eyes.  A collective gasp issued from the room when a bright line of red began to fall from Sherlock’s nose, the sounds from his throat becoming more and more desperate as he clutched Mycroft’s arms.

“Oh my god!” whimpered Molly, falling down beside Mycroft, determined to help somehow. 

“Molly!” yelled John from the hallway, tossing her a small tube as soon as she turned to face him.  Understanding dawned on her the moment it hit her fingers.  She removed the cap and jammed the Epi-pen into Sherlock’s thigh, rubbing her palm over the injection site to distribute the drug.  During this time the sounds from Sherlock’s throat had stopped, the blood from his nose now running freely down the front of his shirt.  His eyelids began to flutter as Mycroft continued to hold his face upward in an attempt to keep his airway open.

“Ambulance is on its way,” said Lestrade, having apparently stepped into the hallway to make the phone call.

“I’m so sorry!  I didn’t know he was allergic!” whimpered Pamela, who was quickly comforted by her husband.

“Why isn’t that thing working, John?” said Mrs. Hudson, tears streaking her face as she looked at Sherlock in horror.

“Give it a second,” said Mary, hugging her.

After another tense second or two, Sherlock gasped a breath like he was emerging from underwater and the entire room let out a sigh of relief.  Sherlock began to suck in labored breaths, tears and blood mixing on his face. 

“Look at me, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, his face close to his brother’s, “breathe with me.  Slow.  In. And out.  There you go.  Slow.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft and hitched his breath a few more times before slowing down and breathing normally.  Molly stared in shock at the uncharacteristic trust she saw between the two brothers.

“All right, let’s get you off the floor.  John?” Mycroft barely had to turn around as John was already there to take Sherlock’s other arm and assist Mycroft in hoisting Sherlock up into his chair.  Mary handed Molly a wet cloth and she held it to his still bleeding nose, watching his eyes flick shut as he tried to control his breathing. 

Lestrade took the sobbing Mrs. Hudson downstairs along with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.  John and Mary soon followed, claiming a need to pick up Abigail from the babysitter, leaving only Mycroft and Molly with a rapidly recovering Sherlock. 

“I’ll go downstairs and meet the paramedics,” said Mycroft, turning to leave.

“I’m fine now, Mycroft, I don’t need to go,” Sherlock said-and Molly was surprised to hear a tone of pleading in his voice.

“Dr. Hooper, please talk some sense into him.  I’ll be downstairs.”  He turned quickly and left, leaving Molly alone with Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked broken.  His eyes were still red and wet with his involuntary tears and his shirt was covered in blood.  When he spoke, his voice quavered and had a nasal quality as Molly was busy pinching his nose shut to stop the bleeding.

“Molly, please.  I don’t need to go to hospital.”  She removed her hand from his face.

“Sherlock, if you go into anaphylactic shock we don’t have more epinephrine to give you.”

“I know.  But I’m fine.  I feel much better now.  I don’t need to go.”

His nose had stopped bleeding, so Molly had begun to gently scrub the dried blood from his face.  Her brow furrowed at his plea, a glimmer of understanding coming into focus.  Her hand came down from his face as she looked at him questioningly.

“Sherlock, are you afraid of hospitals?”

He huffed and looked away from her, reaching up to feel if his nose had stopped its seeping.

“I’m not afraid of them.  I just don’t like being _in_ them.”  He looked up at her with a sadness that made her heart feel like it was being squeezed.  “Please don’t make me go.”

Such an outpouring of childlike fear was so uncharacteristic of Sherlock that Molly almost wavered, but her medical mind won out in the end.

“Just for a quick look over.  You won’t have to stay, I promise.  And I’ll stay with you the entire time.”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath, the last of the wheezing seeming to be gone.  “OK.  But I can walk to the ambulance.  I don’t need a stretcher.”

Molly helped Sherlock to his feet and held onto his waist as she led him downstairs.  The ambulance arrived just as they stepped out the front door, Mycroft giving an approving look toward Molly as Sherlock willingly climbed into the back and allowed the paramedics to attach multiple monitors to his fingers and arms.

Molly suspected that Mycroft had something to do with the fact that there was quite literally no wait as a doctor stepped immediately into the room upon their arrival.  The examination was quick but thorough, and the doctor addressed Molly and Mycroft as if Sherlock wasn’t there.

“Well, he has suffered a rather severe allergic reaction. The epinephrine administered at home reopened his airways, but I’d like to keep him overnight for observation considering the panic attack that accompanied the anaphylaxis.”

Sherlock shot a desperate look at Molly, who forwarded the look to Mycroft immediately.  Understanding, he drew himself up to full height before addressing the doctor.

“I’m sure he’ll be under the finest care at home tonight.  He’ll have his own personal physician to keep vigil,” he said.  Molly reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, detecting his tension.  She gave him a reassuring smile before turning back to the doctor.

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it, but as long as someone checks on him every couple of hours I suppose it’s all right.  Be on the lookout for any additional swelling or hives, and I’ll give you a prescription for another Epi-pen and some sedatives so you can relax.  Be sure to stop into the clinic tomorrow for a follow-up.”

“Thank you,” said Molly, giving Sherlock’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“We’ll allow the nurses to get you cleaned up, Sherlock.  Dr. Hooper, a word in the hallway?”  Mycroft led Molly out the door as a nurse stepped forward to pack Sherlock’s nose and clean the remaining blood from his face.

“I thank you in advance for keeping an eye on him tonight.”

“It’s no problem.  Why does he hate hospitals so much?”

Mycroft looked wistfully through the glass pane into Sherlock’s room as he responded.  “He was a clumsy child.  Always covered in bumps and bruises.  However, he became rather ill once when he was ten.  Spent an extended period of time in hospital.  I was away at school.  I think it did a number on him.”

“Has he ever panicked like that before?”

“We discovered his allergy when he was quite young and he has always been quite vigilant about it.  He has only experienced a reaction two other times to my knowledge, but yes, the result was similar.  You have to understand-with a mind such as my brother’s, the loss of control for even a moment is a truly terrifying experience, but to lose control for an indefinite amount of time is paralyzing.  There is little to be done to calm him. He must have been truly distracted to have not noticed his allergen in the room. Although, I daresay your presence has helped tremendously in his recovery.”

Molly blushed slightly as she glanced into the room to see Sherlock shying away from the obviously flirting nurse.  She saw his lips move but couldn’t hear what was said.  Suddenly the nurse clapped her hand over her mouth and ran from the room.

“And that’s my cue to take him home.  Thanks, Mycroft,” Molly said as she headed back into the room where Sherlock was swinging his feet off the table like a child.

“Oh, and Dr. Hooper--“

She turned to look at him before entering.  “My brother has never been particularly good with sentiment, but I urge you to be patient with him. There is something very different about him when he is with you.  It’s almost as if he’s-dare I say it-happy.”  Molly smiled as Mycroft turned on his heel and left.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The cab pulled up outside Baker Street a short time later, Molly reaching out a hand to help a very weary looking Sherlock out of the cab and up the stairs, the sedatives administered at the hospital slowly starting to take effect.  Mrs. Hudson met them at the door, quickly fussing over Sherlock’s shirt.  As she turned to leave for her flat, she whispered to Molly, “take care of him, dear,” and winked over her shoulder.

Molly helped Sherlock into his bedroom, sitting him on the edge of his bed and leaving before returning moments later from the bathroom carrying one of John’s old penlights.  She kneeled down in front of Sherlock, resting her hands on his knees. 

“Open up, I need to check and make sure your throat isn’t swelling anymore.”  He obediently opened his mouth as she shined the light down his throat, confirming his allergic reaction to be at bay.

“I suppose I’ve managed to ruin two Christmas parties in a row,” he said wearily, shrugging off his jacket and beginning to unbutton his bloodied shirt.  Molly rose to walk over to his bureau, rummaging for a moment and finding a plain t-shirt to hand him, kneeling in front of him again.

“Sherlock, you didn’t ruin anything.  What you did for me was incredibly sweet.  I had a great time.  Just, next time you ask me to dance, maybe don’t stop breathing, ok?” she smiled as he removed the bloody mess and pulled the t-shirt over his head, smiling shyly.  She made to stand up, but Sherlock followed her and reached out to grab her wrist before she could exit.

“Molly,” she turned back to face him, surprised at the gesture. “I’m glad you had a good time.”  He reached out to place his other hand behind her head, pulling her closer, hesitating for a moment in case she objected.  _Time for my annual pity kiss on the cheek,_ she thought. When instead, his trajectory did not waver to one side or the other, her breath hitched, and he closed the distance between them to press his lips to hers, his eyes closing at the contact.  His heart stilled for a moment when he thought that she might pull away, but instead her hand that was not being held in place by his came up to rest lightly against his cheek as she gently returned the kiss.  It was short-lived and sweet, Molly pulling away but not taking her hand away from his face.  He searched her face for signs of regret, but found none.  She smiled and put her hands on either side of his head, placing a soft kiss on his forehead and allowing her thumbs to stroke the curls above both his ears. 

“Get some rest, Sherlock,” she said, smiling, as she left the room and shut the door lightly. 

“Happy Christmas, Molly,” he said, smiling to himself and feeling a blush rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with his allergy.  He kicked off his shoes and trousers and fell backwards into bed, arms out to his sides, unable to keep the enormous grin off his face.


	16. House Call

Molly had been up for hours by the time she finally decided she wouldn’t be able to sleep any time soon. 

_Sherlock kissed me!  Not a pity kiss! Not for a case!  A proper, real, on-the-mouth kiss!_

Had Mary’s advice worked?  Had his feelings changed?  Or was all of this just some sort of weird, reversed Nightingale Effect?  Molly’s thoughts swirled around her head and she nearly smiled before remembering the images residing in her head of Moriarty on the television screens and Tom; she tried desperately to get rid of the image of his eyes staring at nothing, those horrifying hooks criss-crossing his back and chest like a macabre art display.  With a huff, she decided breakfast would make her feel better, so she headed downstairs.

The flat was silent.  Normally Sherlock was up before her, moving about with various experiments or research, although considering she had taken his bed the last several nights (claiming convenience due to her exhaustion) she supposed it had been days since he had had any proper sleep.  When she thought about his rather traumatic incident last night and the sedative he was given in hospital, she also figured it wasn’t unusual that he would still be in bed. 

As quietly as possible, Molly gathered the necessary materials for eggs and bacon, making extra in the hopes she could coax Sherlock into eating something.  She had just flipped the bacon when she heard rustling coming from Sherlock’s bedroom.

Emerging from behind the door with a sheet clutched around his shoulders, Sherlock trudged into the bathroom.  His hair was positively wild, sticking out in all directions, and there were red lines crossing his face from the sheets in which he had previously been sleeping on.  He looked somehow younger, especially when giving Molly a shy smile before shutting the door.  Looking down, Molly realized she was wearing the combination of his shirt and pants, which she had slept in the night before.

Molly plated the bacon and eggs and moved the remains of Sherlock’s most recent experiment, finding some disinfectant to wipe down the table before sitting down to dig in.  Sherlock emerged from the bathroom moments later, staggering into the kitchen and plopping down at the table, seeming to be still partially asleep.

“Morning, sunshine,” Molly chuckled as she slid a plate piled high with breakfast in front of the consulting detective.

“Morning,” he responded,  his voice deep and raspy from sleep.  He stared at Molly for another moment before picking up his fork and starting in on the food.  Molly inwardly cheered her success.

They ate in relative silence, and with each passing moment Molly feared more and more that Sherlock was experiencing regret for kissing her the night before.  Just as she began to speak up, he spoke as well, the two of them cutting each other off.

“Molly, I--“

“Do you --“

“Go ahead,”

“No, you first,”

“Oh, well…nothing.”

Molly rose to collect their empty plates and made to set them in the sink, Sherlock rising as well, following her.

“Molly, I’m sorry about last night,” he blurted, leaning awkwardly against the counter as she rinsed the plates.

“Yes, how dare you have an allergic reaction and nearly die, you attention hog,” Molly said flatly, knowing full-well that wasn’t what he was referring to, but desperately hoping against the truth.

“Sarcasm?”

“Sarcasm.”

Sherlock nodded before continuing.  “No, I mean…I’m sorry for…” Never before had he felt more awkward.  It was like being thirteen again, tripping over every word, uncertain what to say next.  Molly stared at him in rapt attention. “Kissing you,” he finished.

“Oh,”   _Ouch._

“Ishouldn’thavedoneititwasrudewithoutaskingfirstI’msorry—“  he said all at once, trying hard not to make eye contact.

Molly too was looking at the floor, and when he looked up he saw an emotion flit across her face that he was not expecting.

“Unless,” he went on.  Molly brought her head up to look at him.  “Unless it was…all right?”

A small smile crept onto Molly’s face.  “Yes, it was…all right,” she said, rolling her eyes upward.

“Just…all right?” Sherlock had taken a step toward Molly and there was now little space between them.

_Oh!  He’s flirting!  Do what Mary said!  Flirt back!  Flirt back!_

“I suppose it was…okay,” she said, trying and failing not to smile as she felt Sherlock’s hand gently rest on her waist.  Just as she felt him move to pull her closer she looked up to meet his eyes, shocked to see a bright red line of blood just barely running from his nose.

“Oh, god, Sherlock, your nose!”  She turned to grab a hand towel before unceremoniously shoving it in his face, using her other hand to hold the back of his head.

“For god’s sake, I haven’t even done anything yet!”  He said, though his voice was muffled through the cloth.

“Sometimes nosebleeds can recur until the vessels have had a chance to clot properly.  Do you have a history of nosebleeds?”

“Yes. I had them all the time as a child, but it was usually onset due to Mycroft punching me.”

Molly giggled.  “It’s very hard for me to imagine ‘Agent M’ punching anybody, let alone his little brother.”

“You didn’t see him after I destroyed his birthday cake one year,”

“I would have punched you too if you ruined my birthday cake,” Molly joked.

“I was two--it wasn’t actually my intention to ruin it--I just wanted some cake and sort of…fell into it,” Molly removed the towel to check the bleeding and was rewarded with a genuine Sherlock chuckle.  The flow of blood seemed to stop, so she moved to the sink to wet the towel in order to begin cleaning up.

“Well, is that some residual bleeding or did you finally say something rude enough for Molly to clock you one?”  John’s voice rang out from the sitting room, where he had entered silently.

“I believe you’re the only one of my friends to--how did you put it?  _Clock me one_.”  Sherlock accepted the wet towel Molly handed him and began to clean off his face. 

“I got a little blood on my hands.  Just gonna pop off and clean up,” said Molly, retreating to the bathroom, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the kitchen.

“Molly’s wearing your pants.”

“You’ve gained three pounds and haven’t slept in two nights.”

John glared at Sherlock.

“What?  I thought since you were stating the obvious…”  Sherlock filled the kettle and set about making coffee, still a little hazy from more sleep than he was used to and his nearly enjoyable morning encounter.

“So?”  John asked after a few seconds of silence.

“So…what?” 

“So…“ 

John gestured wildly in the direction of the bathroom.  “So, why is Molly…?  Are you two…?”

“Are you going to finish any of those sentences?” Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised in question.

“You git.  You know what I’m trying to ask.  Is there something going on between you and Molly?”

Sherlock sighed, unsure whether or not to go down this road with John.  True, John was his best friend, but the idea of asking dating advice from the army doctor seemed daunting at the least.

In the end, he decided he was out of his league.  “I…kissed her last night,” he said as he stirred sugar into his coffee.

John blinked several times and shook his head.  “You…you did what?”

“Please don’t make me repeat it, John,” Sherlock sipped the scalding liquid, half flinching at the temperature and half flinching at John’s flabbergasted expression.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well…what did she do?  Did she kiss you back?” John was now leaning against the table, angling himself forward as if it would get him to the information quicker.

“She told me to get some rest.”

“Was she…angry?  Excited?  What the hell even brought this on?”

Sherlock shook his head, prepared to express his uncertainty in the situation before John straightened up.

“No.  Tell me this isn’t something to do with the case.  Tell me this isn’t Janine all over again.  You can’t do that to Molly, Sherlock.  You can’t.”

Realizing what John meant, Sherlock immediately sat his coffee down as to better deflect a punch in the event John didn’t give him a chance to explain.

“No!  That’s not it at all!  I…don’t know what happened, but I assure you…I would never do anything to hurt her,” he lowered his hands, carefully checking to ensure John was not in attack mode.  Instead, a slow grin appeared on his friend’s face, and he began chuckling softly.  “What?”

John continued to chuckle, placing his hands on his hips.  “Sherlock Holmes, I can’t believe it.”

Sherlock stiffened, unable to see whatever it was John could.  “What?  Can’t believe what?”

“You love her.”  John raised his eyebrows knowingly.

Sherlock turned back toward the sink, gathering dishes to busy himself.  “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

John’s eyes widened and he pointed a finger at Sherlock, his grin becoming even bigger.  “Oh my god, you do!”

“You’ve been surrounded by women too long.”

“You love her.  When did this happen?  Why now?  For god’s sake, Sherlock, the girl’s been pining after you for five years, why did--“

“I DON’T KNOW!” Sherlock shouted.  John lowered his hands and sat at the table, still unable to believe what he was hearing.  “All I know is that I feel…different…than I used to and that this couldn’t possibly be happening at a worse time,” Sherlock too sat at the table, his head in his hands.  “I can’t sort through…whatever this is… _and_ deal with Moriarty at the same time.”

“You’re forgetting something, mate,” John responded, his voice finally softening. 

“Yes, there’s always something,” Sherlock said, raising his head.

“You don’t have to do either alone.  I don’t know what to tell you about Moriarty at this point, but girl trouble is sort of the job the best friend can help with,” John smiled at him deviously.

“The case is at a stand-still,” Sherlock began.  “When Moriarty- or whoever wants us to believe it’s him -decides it’s time to continue, more information will be provided.  I’m a pawn at this point.  I just have to wait for him to make his move.”

John nodded.  “As for the other issue?”

Sherlock sighed again.  “What do I do?”

“You actually care about her don’t you?”  John asked, another smile perking up the corners of his mouth.  Sherlock gave him a forlorn look that was clearly intended to convey _Obviously_.  “Well, lucky for you, I have the perfect opportunity for you.”

Sherlock looked at him inquisitively. 

“I actually came over here to invite the two of you to ours for New Years.  I know you’re still under house arrest or what-not, but as the British Government is also invited, I’m sure an exception can be made.”

“What does that have anything to do with Molly?”  Sherlock asked, taking a long drink from his abandoned coffee.

“Ask her out.  Properly.  On a date.  And not your version of a date, Sherlock.  Hold doors, pull out chairs.  Be…not you.”

“But she knows that’s not me,” he replied, doubtful.

“Which is why she’ll be even more impressed by the effort.  Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”  John stood up to leave.  Just before he walked out the door, he turned again to face the kitchen.  “Um, Sherlock…do we need to talk about anything else having to do with…adult relationships?”

Sherlock stared at him.

“You know.  Like, if the date goes well…and you two decide to…”

“Goodbye John,” Sherlock stated over John’s voice, stopping him.

“Right, well, call if you need…advice.  Right.”  As he turned and left, Sherlock couldn’t help the snort that escaped into his coffee mug.


	17. Mischief Managed

When Molly emerged from her room several minutes later, the flat was silent again.

“Sherlock?” she called out, uncertain if John had whisked him away for some sort of case.

“Down here,” came a muffled call from the downstairs flat.  Molly treaded lightly down the stairs and into the unused flat of 221C.  She then rubbed her eyes quickly, as what she was seeing could not possibly be correct.  Sherlock was standing in front of a washing machine and dryer, extracting clothes, and… _folding them_. 

“You’re doing laundry,” she pointed at the clothes in question, wondering if this was some sort of experiment and mentally noting to check that all her clothes were secure in their place on the floor of her room.

“Why does everyone feel the need to state the obvious today?” Sherlock asked with a roll of his eyes as he artfully folded a pair of trousers.

“You do your own laundry?”  Molly asked, still in disbelief.

“Did you think I had a house elf?”  Sherlock continued folding, not looking at her.

“No, I just thought you would--wait a minute, you’ve read Harry Potter?” she asked, her face scrunching up again with a smirk.

“Rehab is a boring place, Molly,” he answered, beginning to drop another load of clothes into the washing machine.

Molly wiped the smile off her face and looked down at the floor.  “Right.  Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said as he poured soap into the machine and set it.  “I’ve come to terms with it as a part of my life that I don’t wish to repeat.  As I said before, rehab was dreadfully boring.”

Molly still didn’t look up, a million questions floating through her mind.  Seeming to read her mind, Sherlock continued.

“I know I don’t talk about it, but that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to ask.”

Finally, feeling brave, she looked up at his face.  “What made you decide to stop?”

Sherlock sighed, leaning against the dryer with both hands outstretched in front of him.  “I would have thought that would be obvious.”

Knowing he wasn’t looking at her, Molly closed her eyes briefly before saying what she had always assumed.  “You overdosed.”  Sherlock nodded solemnly.

“I was working a case for Lestrade.  Serial child killer.  I missed a clue that caused a four-year-old girl’s death.  I couldn’t…” he trailed off and looked away for a moment.  “I wanted to not have to think about it anymore.  To not have to _feel_.”

Molly was silent for a moment before going on.  “Who found you?”

“Donovan.  Lestrade sent her over with the case file for me to study.  Contrary to popular belief she doesn’t hate me strictly for my personality.  Unfortunately for me, I am always in her debt, as she did save my life.”

Molly cautiously approached Sherlock and sat her hand on top of one of his.

“The hospital contacted my parents.  I was completely out of it at the time.  I woke up to Mycroft shoving consent papers in my face and threatening me with bodily harm if I didn’t sign them.”

“When did you get out?”

“Right before I met John actually.  I was staying with Mycroft, which is enough for anyone to relapse, when he decided it was acceptable for me to get my own place, provided it came with a flatmate.  The rest is, as they say, history,” he glanced up at her face, giving her a small, sad smile.

“Sherlock, what happened before--it doesn’t change anything about who you are.  You are brilliant.  You’ve always been brilliant.  But even brilliant people make mistakes.  You just--“

“Would you like to have dinner?”  Sherlock blurted out, interrupting her.  Molly stared at him in silence, not sure she heard correctly.

“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock inhaled a deep breath in and out, closing his eyes and turning toward her.  “Would you like to go out…with me…on a…date?”  His sentence got quieter and quieter with each word, ending barely audible.

“A…date?” she asked, her eyes wide in shock.

“Yes.  John and Mary are having people over for New Years and I thought…perhaps you would like to go with me?  Have dinner before?”  _Is it hot in here?  I feel like it’s hot in here_.  Sweat began to bead on his forehead as he refused to break eye contact with her.

“I,” she began, a smile slowly creeping onto her face “I would love that, Sherlock.”

He visibly relaxed before going back to pick up his folded clothes.  “Right then.  I’ll pick you up on Friday at seven?”

“Sherlock, I live with you.”

“I know.  Be ready at seven.


	18. Happy New Year

Molly had been in her room preparing for her date for nearly two hours when her stomach began doing nervous flip-flops.  _I’m going on a date…with Sherlock Holmes!_   Unwilling to put any undue pressure on him, she opted out of her slightly more risqué black dress and selected a simpler, sweeter pale pink one.  It was age-appropriate without being too revealing, and the color, she thought, was flattering to her complexion.  She began to pull her hair up when she remembered the look Sherlock had given her when her hair was down after her shower and decided to let it fall freely past her shoulders.  She applied a little light make-up and took a deep breath as she appraised herself in the mirror:  nicer than normal, but not trying too hard.

At 6:58, there was a gentle knock on her bedroom door.  Molly giggled slightly at Sherlock’s punctuality and insistence on “picking her up” for their date.  Her heart leapt slightly as she opened the door and caught sight of him in her favorite purple shirt that he had only reclaimed from her the day before. 

“You look lovely,” he said with a shy smile.  Molly watched as his eyes moved quickly up and down her form once, no doubt deducing a thousand things about how nervous she was about their date.  The fact that he voiced none of his deductions further proved how much he wanted the evening to be successful. 

“Thank you,” she replied, “you look nice too.  I love that shirt on you.”

From behind his back he produced a small bouquet of flowers, their ends hidden from view within his grasp.  “Um-these are for you.”

Molly chuckled and shook her head.  “That’s very sweet of you, Sherlock, but you’d better go put those back on Mrs. Hudson’s table before we leave or she’s going to hit you with the newspaper again.”

“Right, well, I tried, anyway.”  Sherlock turned just the slightest bit pink before turning to lead them down the steps into the main flat.  Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs at the same time, meeting them in the sitting room.  Sherlock tried in vain to hide the flowers behind his back again, only to receive a playful glare from Mrs. Hudson as she snatched them from him. 

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you try to pass off used flowers to our Molly.  You be good this evening, young man, or your mother shall hear of it!”  She gave Molly a smirk before walking into the kitchen. 

“Mrs. Hudson, are you sure you wouldn’t like to come to dinner with us?  Or to John and Mary’s?”  Molly asked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude on your date, dear.  Sherlock’s been talking about it non-stop for days.”  At this, Sherlock’s pink from before went full red, as he ushered Molly quickly out of the door before Mrs. Hudson could do any more damage.  “Have fun you two!  I’m a very heavy sleeper so don’t be afraid of waking me up when you get home!”

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Sherlock and Molly walked along the crowded streets of London with their hands tucked deeply into their pockets, attempting to stay warm against the December air.  Dinner had gone surprisingly well, with Angelo only gushing slightly about the fact that Sherlock had brought a girl with him instead of “Doctor John.”  Conversation flowed easily throughout the meal, with Sherlock recounting some of he and John’s more humorous cases that Molly hadn’t been part of and Sherlock listening in rapt attention as Molly told him of one of the more mysterious autopsies she had performed while still a medical student.

Molly felt lighter than air as the evening progressed, happy to finally be able to talk about her job on a date and not only not have him cringe, but to listen and ask questions as well.  She was also amazed to see Sherlock actually eat a full meal, as he was normally more of a grazer at home, casually plucking food from her own plate rather than sit down to eat his own.  When they had finished and Sherlock had attempted to pay for their meal (which Angelo waved off energetically), they exited and began the long walk to John and Mary’s house.

Unfortunately, their conversation seemed to stay within the cozy little restaurant, as they now walked in silence, hunched against the cold.  Molly gave a slight shudder at a particularly icy gust of wind.

“Would you like my coat?”  Sherlock asked, already unbuttoning his wool overcoat.

Molly sighed.  “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I was only offering because you look cold--“

“No.  Not the coat--this:” Molly gestured vaguely with her hands.  “Asking me out, taking me to dinner, the whole ‘dating’ game; I know it’s not you.”

“You’re not enjoying yourself, then?”  Sherlock asked, confused, since her body language throughout dinner had indicated that she had been having a good time.

“No, no, no!  That’s not it at all, Sherlock.  This evening has been wonderful so far!”  She held her hands up in a peacemaking gesture.  “It’s just…I know this isn’t you.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, his head facing the pavement as he walked on.

“Then why are you doing it?” she asked, pulling her coat in tighter.

“I just wanted you to be happy.  You deserve to be happy.”

Molly nearly stopped walking at his words but kept going, only hesitating for a moment on the pavement.  Her eyes misted over slightly as she smiled up at him, his eyes still on the ground.  Without a word, she slipped her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder as they continued to walk.  Sherlock only had an instant to be surprised by her actions before a sleek black car pulled up next to them on the street.

“Oh, no,” Molly said, gripping Sherlock’s arm tightly, “you don’t think something’s come up in the case?”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head.  “No, this is Mycroft meddling in my social life again.  Come on,” he put his free hand over hers and led her into the back of the blissfully warm car.  Molly’s eyes widened slightly at the array before her.  The back of the car had been outfitted with soft lighting and a dazzling display of wine glasses and bottles. 

“Well, I suppose this is on my brother’s tab.  Molly, would you like a drink?”  Sherlock selected one of the bottles, no doubt something Molly would only be able to afford in her wildest dreams and poured two glasses.  He handed her one and raised his own, looking at her expectantly.  “To the New Year?”

“To the New Year,” she raised her glass and clinked it against his.  Drinking deeply, the wine was absolutely heavenly on her tongue. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“I trust you had a pleasant voyage to the party, dear brother?”  Mycroft strolled over to meet Sherlock as Molly rushed to greet Mary and a giggling Abigail in her arms. 

“I suppose ‘thanks’ are in order?” Sherlock glared as he hung his and Molly’s coats on the rack inside the door. 

“Nonsense.  Wouldn’t want you to do something…out of character now, would we?”  Sherlock bristled as he felt the unwelcome sensation of someone deducing everything about _him._   “I so hope you have a good evening, Sherlock.  Do stay away from the hors d’oeuvres this time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business of my own to conduct.”  Mycroft breezed through the room to stand beside Detective Inspector Lestrade, who was standing awkwardly by the window having clearly uncomfortable conversation with Sarah Sawyer from the clinic.  Sherlock cocked his head slightly as he watched his brother approach. 

“Huh.” Sherlock shook his head in disbelief before making his way through the crowd to find Molly.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Midnight was fast approaching as Molly noticed Sherlock was no longer behind her.  He had been doing quite well at the party, only receiving one scathing retort from Donovan and very nearly announcing the affair between two of the doctors at John’s surgery before he was stopped by Mary.  Molly had been talking to John for several minutes about something medical that Sherlock had clearly found to be boring and wandered away.  As Mary walked past carrying drinks, Molly tugged her sleeve.

“Have you seen Sherlock?”

“He’s out back.  I think two social engagements in a week were just too much for him,” she smiled.

“I’d better go check on him then,” Molly made to exit through the kitchen to the small back garden.

“Just remember everything I taught you!” Mary winked at Molly’s back as she disappeared out the door.

The atmosphere outside was quiet compared to the rustling excitement of the party.  Sherlock sat along the stone wall surrounding the small terrace behind the house, looking up at the sky.  At the sound of the door closing, he seemed to tense slightly.

“John, for god’s sake, I’m not smoking, I just need a min--“

He turned around at the sound of her walking toward him.  “Oh, it’s you.”

“Everything ok?” Molly asked, crossing her arms and hugging herself.  While he had clearly retrieved his coat before coming outside, she had not.

“Yes, I just needed to--“

“Take a break?” Molly finished for him, reaching his spot along the stone wall.

Sherlock smiled and nodded, glad that Molly understood his need to extricate himself from so many people without explanation.  He stood, unbuttoning his coat.  “Here,” he said, gently taking Molly’s arm and pulling her close to him, wrapping them both in his coat, his arms wrapped tightly around her back.  Blushing slightly, she accepted his gesture by lacing her hands around his waist and resting her head against his chest, relishing in both the warmth and the intimate contact.  She felt him release a shaky breath before bringing his head down to rest his cheek against her hair.

They remained like that for several minutes, Sherlock absently allowing his thumbs to graze back and forth across her back as he held the coat in place around her.  From inside, a loud countdown began, indicating the impending hour.

“FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!” The cheering inside met them on the terrace, as Molly leaned slightly away from him. 

“Happy New Year, Molly Hooper.”

“Happy New Year, Sherlock,” Molly smiled.  She rose to her tip-toes and gave him a brief peck on the lips, smirking at the way his eyes widened and cheeks reddened that had nothing to do with the cold.  She lowered herself back down to regular height.  “So, should we go back in or--“

Her sentence was interrupted by Sherlock pulling her in close, pressing his mouth to hers, a kiss far less innocent than the one she had given a moment before.  Letting out a small squeak of surprise, she felt Sherlock start to pull back, obviously afraid he had overstepped his bounds.  Before he could pull away, she brought her hands up to swing around his neck, her fingers tangling in the curls on the back of his head.  He immediately relaxed, snaking his arms tighter around her waist, his hands’ job of holding the coat long forgotten.  Closing her eyes, she continued to kiss him the way she had wanted to for the past several years, fireworks exploding in the sky as the celebrations of the New Year surrounded them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Where’s Sherlock and Molly?  They’re missing everything!”  John asked Mary, Mycroft, and Lestrade, all of whom were standing slightly apart from the throng of guests still raucously singing “Auld Lang Syne.”

“Oh, I think they’re enjoying themselves,” Mycroft said, raising his glass and indicating the kitchen window behind the small group.

The fireworks display had illuminated the back garden like day, revealing Sherlock and Molly very nearly glued together, completely and totally unaware of their audience.

“Are they snoggin’?” Lestrade laughed, knocking back the last of his scotch. 

“You’re the detective,” Mycroft smirked at Lestrade, eliciting an uncomfortable smile from the Inspector.

“My god, it’s like a car accident-I can’t stop watching,” John said, his eyes agape as the group watched Sherlock bring one hand up to rest gently against Molly’s cheek.

“Oh, look at you three!  It’s not a show!” Mary jokingly shooed the men away from the window, drawing the curtains to give the new couple some privacy.  Before shutting them completely she allowed herself one final look, a triumphant squeal escaping before she ran off to join John.


	19. Batten Down the Hatches

Sherlock Holmes could not remember the last time his mind was so blissfully blank without the aid of illegal substances.  Kissing Molly Hooper was unlike any drug he had ever experienced, rendering him completely unaware of his surroundings.  Only when Molly pulled away several minutes later was he reoriented with the present, the grin on her face enough to make him swell with pride. 

“That’s even better when we’re not undercover,” she giggled.

As Sherlock leaned down to place another gentle kiss on her lips, the outside light to the Watson house began to blink erratically.  Turning his head, but not moving away from Molly, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the flashing porch light.

“What is it?” asked Molly, her fingers unconsciously wrapping tendrils of his hair around themselves. 

Sherlock sighed and gave a light chuckle as he turned back to Molly, bringing his forehead to rest against hers.  “It’s my brother.”

Molly furrowed her brow, obviously confused, so he continued.  “Morse code.  It’s been years since he’s had to tell me to come inside.  I suspect our ride will be leaving shortly.”

Molly smiled as she turned her head to the flashing light.  “Who’s ‘Captain Will?’”

Sherlock tensed as she turned back to face him.  “You know Morse code?”

“Well, I’m going to take one of your lines here and say ‘obviously,’” she laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back at the house.  He seemed very uncomfortable.  “I’m Captain Will,” he mumbled, not daring to look her in the eye.

“Like…a pirate captain?” Molly’s grin grew wider as she detected his embarrassment.

“Yes…like a pirate captain.”

“Oh my god.  You were a completely normal child, weren’t you?” she teased.

“You take that back,” he said seriously, though Molly could hear the underlying sarcasm.

“Come on, Captain Will.  I think Barbossa is ready to set sail.”

Sherlock huffed and looked up in the air with a shake of his head before following Molly inside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Will you sleep tonight?” Molly asked as Sherlock opened the door to 221. 

“There are some encrypted e-mails from some of Moriarty’s network that I was going to wade through tonight.  I doubt they have any useful information, but it still needs to be finished.”

They walked up the stairs into the flat, stopping at the stairs to Molly’s bedroom.

“Promise me you’ll try to sleep a little?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again as Molly took a single step up toward her room.  She leaned down to give him a solid kiss, not failing to notice the way he closed his eyes and swayed a little on the spot.

“Goodnight,I had a…great time,” she said, turning to go upstairs.

“Goodnight,” he replied, smiling at her back.  Sighing, he removed his coat and tossed it on the back of John’s old chair and leaned back against the wall of the sitting room, reviewing everything that had happened over the course of the evening.  He was just getting to whether or not Molly would insist on referring to him as her “boyfriend” when he heard Molly’s footsteps on the stairs coming back down.

“Did you decide to stay up for encrypted e-mails, because I could teach you how to hack a--“

Sherlock was immediately stopped by Molly rather forcefully grabbing his hair and pulling him down into a searing kiss.  Feeling as though he had momentarily gone cross-eyed, he recovered enough to return the action fairly quick.  Closing his eyes, he relished the feeling of his once mousy pathologist pushing his body with hers against the sitting room wall, not-so-gently pulling at the curls on the back of his head.  He brought his hands down to her hips, the slight curve leading down to her backside enough to send unfamiliar shivers up and down the length of his body.

At the precise moment he believed himself to be regaining control of the situation, he felt Molly gently nip at his bottom lip, using his startled gasp as an invitation to explore the inside of his mouth.  Through the sound of lips smacking he heard a pathetic sounding whimper and was rather embarrassed when he realized it had come from his own throat. 

Determined to not come off as a complete prude, he tightened his grip on her hips and pressed her body even closer, inadvertently causing her hip to brush against the now-obvious proof of his enjoyment.  His eyes snapped open wide and they broke apart gasping, the need for oxygen an afterthought.  He rested his forehead against hers in an effort to slow down his frantic heartbeat.  “I’m sorry-I’ve never done this before,” he gasped breathlessly, one of his hands bravely seeking the bare skin of her lower back.

“Well, from an outsider’s standpoint, you’re doing astonishingly well for your first time,” she replied, equally debauched.

“I’m a quick learner,” he smiled, coming back down to kiss her again.

“I’ll try to keep up,” she answered between kisses, one hand remaining in his hair as the other slid menacingly down his chest and stomach.  As her hand swiftly moved to grasp him through his trousers, Sherlock felt his brain go temporarily off-line.  His usually razor-sharp thoughts were diminished to the most primal:  _WANT.  NEED.  MOLLY.  NOW._

Breaking from the kiss he knelt down sharply and grasped her by the upper thighs, picking her up and turning her around to place her against the wall.  Immediately she followed his motion by wrapping her legs around his waist and bringing her face back down to his, their kisses changing from sweet and loving to hungry and needy.  Holding her up with one hand, Sherlock used his other arm to brace himself against the wall as she began deftly unbuttoning his shirt.  _Those damn buttons have been working too hard anyway._   The moment his shirt was opened she began running her hands up and down his chest, at the last second giving his nipples a teasing flick.

An incredibly humorous and uncharacteristic yip indicated his surprise as he pulled her away from the wall and began carrying her through to the kitchen.  His knees buckled slightly when she brought her fingers up his sides with a feather light touch, eliciting a muffled giggle from the consulting detective.

She pulled away from his mouth suddenly.  “Sherlock Holmes, are you _ticklish?_ ”

His eyes widened as he stopped to set her on the edge of the kitchen table.  “Absolutely not,” he replied, his voice approximately two octaves higher than usual.

“Are you sure?” She said against his mouth, locking her legs around his to hold him in place as she brought her hands up to repeat the tickling motion.  Sherlock giggled again, squirming like a child. 

“Stop it!  Stop--“

He brought his right hand up to the inside of her knee, poised in position to make Molly begin a laughing fit of her own.  She stopped immediately.  “Truce?” he asked, his face pink from laughing.

“For now,” she answered, using her legs to pull him back to her, their mouths colliding once more.

Molly brought her hands up to push his shirt from his shoulders.  Stepping back to remove it, he faltered when he forgot to unbutton his cuffs, managing to dance around in place and get himself thoroughly caught in his own clothing.  Giggling at his futile efforts, Molly held out her arms from her position on the table.  “Come here,” she chuckled.

Sighing in frustration, he approached her backwards, presenting his captured hands behind his back.  “We’ll save tying you up for another time,” she smirked.

Sherlock gulped before feeling his hands fall free from his shirt and Molly’s small fingers turning him around to face her once more.  Gathering his courage, he ran his hands up her thighs and under the pale pink fabric of her dress.  Silently giving permission, Molly raised her arms above her head as Sherlock guided the silky fabric up and off, leaving her only in her bra and knickers. 

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the entire situation, Sherlock brought his head down to rest on her shoulder, allowing his hands to continue their trek across the newly exposed flesh of her back and sides.  “I take back every demeaning remark I ever made about your body,” he panted, realizing suddenly the lack of attention he had been devoting to Molly’s neck and shoulders. 

Her heart fluttering excitedly to the new sensation of Sherlock gently sucking on her neck, Molly felt him slowly guide her down to lay upon the table, Sherlock awkwardly scrabbling up to kneel over her.  In his attempt to brace himself over top of her, several of his petri dishes and beakers went crashing to the floor, shattering into a million pieces.  Turning her head away from Sherlock’s ministrations against her collar bone, Molly gasped “Your experiments!  You’ll have to start all over!”

“Finding it _really_ difficult to care right now,” he replied, pressing their chests together, evoking a collective gasp from the two of them at the skin-to-skin contact.  Staring into each other’s eyes, they seemed to think the same thing at the same time.

“Bedroom?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

Hopping off the table with much more grace than a grown man should possess, he quickly pulled her up into a sitting position and into his arms again, carrying her from the kitchen, the broken glass crunching beneath his shoes as she giggled at his eagerness.  They continued a heated kiss the entire way down the hall, stopping only briefly for Sherlock to kick off his shoes and pull off his socks.  He pushed his way through his bedroom door, allowing Molly to slowly slide down his body to stand on her own feet.

After another moment, she wrapped her fingers around two of his belt loops and pushed him backwards onto the bed.  Appreciating the shocked look of delight on his face, she crawled seductively on top of him until she straddled his hips, inducing a deep rumble from the detective.

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” she moved back slightly so she could begin unbuttoning his trousers.  “There are very few things in this world about which I know more than you,” she unzipped his fly.  “And this is definitely one of them,” she ran her fingers under the lining of his boxers, listening to his breath hitch. “Watch and learn.”


	20. Mother Knows Best

“For God’s sake, I’M COMING!” Sherlock shouted at the door, where impatient knocks were pounding against the wood.  He adjusted the sheet that was wrapped around his middle to ensure that he was somewhat decent before he opened the door. “This had better be goo--“

His stomach dropped to the floor as his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“Hello, Sweetheart! Happy New Year! 

“MUM?”

“Yes, Dear, that is indeed who I am.  Honestly, they call you a genius but sometimes I just don’t see it.”

“What are you doing here?” He began to gather the sheet around himself in an attempt to cover as much skin as possible. 

“Can’t a mother visit her son without motive?  After all, I haven’t seen you or your brother in ages.  We came in last night, didn’t Myc-y call you?”

“No, must have slipped his mind.” Sherlock ground his teeth and mentally noted to kill Mycroft later.

“Well, are you going to let me in or do I have to go stay with Martha?” She began pushing her way through the door but Sherlock blocked it deftly, attempting in vain to keep the sheet from falling past his shoulders.

“Um, now’s really not a good time, Mum. I’m…um…not dressed…”

“Sherlock, please.  I lived with the teenaged version of you, I’ve seen you at much worse.” With that she pushed her way in and stopped almost immediately.  “You’ve tidied!  To tell you the truth I expected everything to go to hell in here after Dr. Watson moved out, but you’ve kept it so neat!  Whatever has come over you?”

As if in answer to her question, a voice rang out from the back hallway.  “Sherlock, are you coming back to bed?  Who was it at the do--“

Molly Hooper emerged into the sitting room, wearing only her knickers and one of Sherlock’s dress shirts.  She stopped immediately at the sight of Sherlock and his mother in the living room and let out an involuntary squeak, brow furrowing upwards and eyes widening.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, willing himself to disappear as his mother’s head swiveled back and forth between the two of them.  “Mum, meet Dr. Molly Hooper.  Molly, my mum.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes,” said Molly, her hands fumbling with the hem of the shirt, tugging it in an attempt to make it longer.

Mrs. Holmes’ confused face turned once more back to look at Sherlock.  “She’s…with…you?”

Sherlock became very interested in the finer details of the floor as Mrs. Holmes instead turned to Molly.

“You’re his...?” her unfinished question hanging on the air.

“Um…I think so, yes?” Molly answered timidly, looking at Sherlock and silently begging him to help her.

“How long?” Mrs. Holmes turned back to Sherlock, arms moving to her hips, demanding he look at her.

“…couple months,” he mumbled, trying desperately to look anywhere but at his own mother. When he finally did look up, he saw with horror that there were tears in her eyes, just threatening to pool over.  He made a choking sound in the back of his throat before Mrs. Holmes launched herself at Molly, pulling her into a crushing hug.

“Oh, Molly!  Thank you!” her arms pinned Molly’s own to her sides, allowing her to throw a shocked look over Mrs. Holmes’ shoulder to Sherlock, who seemed equally flabbergasted at this response.  “I’ve worried for ages that he would never find someone to put up with him!”  Mrs. Holmes hands shot up to cup Molly’s cheeks, joyful tears now staining her wrinkled face.

“Um, you’re welcome?” Molly said uncertainly, not sure how to respond at this outward display of emotion from a member of the Holmes family. 

“And you, young man,” Mrs. Holmes turned on her heel to face Sherlock, who cowered in his sheet like a small child.  “You have a lot of explaining to do.  Why on earth didn’t you tell me about this lovely woman?”

Before she could attack further, Molly spoke up. “To be honest, Mrs. Holmes, this is a relatively new development.”

Mrs. Holmes did not remove her deathly gaze from Sherlock’s face, which now looked as though it might vomit.  “But you said this has been going on for a couple months.”

When he finally opened his mouth to speak, Molly was astounded at how different his voice sounded.  It took her several seconds to recognize his inflection as one of intimidation.  “Well, yes.  We’ve…well…”

“Again, with the ‘genius,’” his mother spat, one eyebrow raised sarcastically.

“This…” Sherlock used the hand that was not holding up his sheet to gesture between himself and Molly. “…is recent.”

“Very recent,” Molly added.

Mrs. Holmes turned and smiled warmly at Molly, who felt as if her blush must be reaching her toes by now.  With a final vindictive look, she addressed Sherlock.  “If you mess this up, you’re a right fool, Sherlock Holmes.”

Molly giggled behind her, stopping quickly as Mrs. Holmes came back over to her, grasping both of Molly’s hands in hers.  She called over her shoulder to her son, “Sherly-Pie, go get some trousers on and make Molly and I tea, we’ve got so much we need to catch up on.”

Sherlock cringed and made to walk past them to his bedroom.  “Thank you…Sherly-Pie,” Molly couldn’t help saying as he passed, stifling a laugh.

“Shut up,” he spat, causing him to nearly instantaneously be rapped on the head by Mrs. Holmes’ bag.

“WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES, YOU APOLOGIZE THIS INSTANT!”

Molly bit her lip to keep from laughing as Sherlock tensed his shoulders nearly to his ears during the scolding.  He glared at Molly and smiled playfully as he made his way forward.

“Sorry,” he said, bringing his lips close to her ear to whisper into it, “and if you breathe a word of this to John, I will never forgive you.”  Molly laughed out loud as she heard the door to his bedroom shut.

“Actually Mrs. Holmes, if you don’t mind, I’ll go make myself decent as well,” Molly made to head upstairs to her bedroom but was stopped by Mrs. Holmes grabbing her wrist.

“Nonsense, dear, we have so much to talk about! Sherlock!” she yelled toward his bedroom door, “Give Molly something to wear!”

Without a word, the door opened long enough for a black pair of boxers to be thrown out and the door re-slammed.

“I swear, that boy’s manners get worse and worse as he gets older,” Mrs. Holmes shook her head as Molly grabbed the pants and slipped them on.  Feeling slightly more comfortable, she joined Mrs. Holmes who had sat down on the small couch in the living room. 

Mrs. Holmes patted the seat next to her.  “Now, dear-start from the beginning; Where did you two meet?”

Molly ran her fingers through her messy hair and contemplated a fabricated story, but fearing a genetic ability to tell apart lies in the Holmes family, she opted for the truth.  “We met in the morgue at St. Bart’s hospital about five years ago while Sherlock was on a case.  I work there as a pathologist.”  Preparing for the cringe that usually accompanied telling people about her profession, Molly adjusted her legs so she was sitting on her feet. 

Instead of a cringe, however, came a short laugh and a loving smile from Mrs. Holmes.  “That’s my Sherlock, such a proclivity for all things dead.  I blame his brother.  He used to read him all sorts of detective novels when he was young.”

“So they _did_ get along as kids!  I knew Sherlock was exaggerating,” Molly said, secretly pleased that Mrs. Holmes seemed unfazed by her job.

“Oh, good lord, they were inseparable.  They didn’t start that petty ‘arch enemy’ nonsense until after Mycroft left for school,” Mrs. Holmes dug into her bag, producing a large pocketbook.  From inside, she withdrew a sleeve of photographs and handed them to Molly.

The first was definitely the oldest, featuring who Molly assumed was a young Mycroft holding a tiny bundle with wild black curls in his arms, smiling impishly at the camera.  The next was clearly from a few years later, and Molly had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle her delighted gasp.

The picture was of a very young Sherlock, maybe three or four years-old, sitting on the shoulders of an adolescent Mycroft.  They appeared to be on the beach, both dressed in white t-shirts and swimming shorts, a bucket and trowel in Sherlock’s hands.  The two boys seemed to have been caught mid-giggle, as both were smiling and laughing at each other. 

“Our vacation to the South of France in ’84.  Sherlock absolutely adored his older brother,” Mrs. Holmes smiled fondly at the photo, idly running a finger over the image.

Molly flipped to the next photo of a teenaged Mycroft holding an academic certificate of some sort.  She looked at it in wonder as she remembered the nickname of “The Iceman” Sherlock had mentioned once of his brother.

She smiled again at the next, an eight or nine year old Sherlock missing both his front teeth hugging the neck of an old Irish Setter.  The bottom of the photograph was labeled “Sherlock and Redbeard, Summer ’89.” 

“We got Redbeard for Sherlock when Mycroft left for school.  He was so upset.  Sherlock was such a loving child, and he did look up to his brother so,”

“Mum, what are you on about?” Sherlock emerged from his bedroom dressed impeccably in a dark blue shirt and black trousers.  Buttoning his cuffs, he approached the sofa and immediately saw what was happening.  Setting eyes on the photographs in Molly’s hands, he went pale and made to snatch them out of her hands.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Molly giggled as Sherlock nearly landed on top of her.  “Your mum was just telling me about what a nice child you were-so what happened?”

“Molly--“

Sherlock growled, still trying to get to the photographs, but unable to reach them over a squirming Molly.  Suddenly Molly heard a sharp crack and looked up to see Sherlock holding his head, Mrs. Holmes sitting next to him, pocketbook raised.

“Sherlock, don’t you dare be rude!  I know you like to pretend that you’re the cool consulting detective but you were raised better!”

Sherlock sat down between them with a scowl, “Yes, Mum.”

Molly relaxed, finally flipping to the final picture.  A university-aged Mycroft sat reading on a sofa, his arm around the sleeping form of Sherlock in his lap, a pirate’s eye-patch sitting askew on his head and a sword nearly falling from his lax hand. 

“See, I knew you secretly loved your brother,” Molly said teasingly, nudging Sherlock with her elbow. 

“Someone please put me out of my misery,” Sherlock buried his face in his hands as Molly handed the photos back to Mrs. Holmes who replaced them in her bag. 

“Oh, come on Sherlock.  I think you were adorable when you were little-and even more handsome now,” she leaned up onto her knees and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, causing him to smile and turn bright pink.

Uttering a high pitched squeal at the sight, Mrs. Holmes grabbed the two of them and pulled them both into a bone-crushing hug.


	21. An Unwelcome Return

John Watson had never felt more exhausted in his entire life.  Years of sleep deprivation in the army and medical school did not prepare him for life as the father of a fussy infant.  So just before seven o’clock on a Monday morning, he found himself strolling down Baker Street, hoping to dump Abigail with Mrs. Hudson for a few hours so he could sneak upstairs for a quick nap while Sherlock fiddled with one of his experiments.

Using his key on the front door, he crept in quietly just in case anybody was still asleep.  As he silently ascended the stairs, he stopped at a sharp sound.  Sure enough, the sounds of a struggle emanated from the flat upstairs.  Weighing the options of bursting in with his infant daughter or leaving her unprotected on the stairway, he opted for transferring her to one hip while extracting his gun with his left hand.

Upon reaching the upstairs landing, however, he stopped at the sight that greeted him through a crack in the door, lowering his weapon as he watched. 

Molly Hooper lunged at Sherlock, arms outstretched, as he deftly moved to one side and pulled her arms up and behind her.

“Poor choice, leaves your torso exposed.  Weak spots?” Sherlock asked with his face positioned next to hers.

“Eyes, throat, groin,” she responded breathily, trying to break his hold and instead allowing him to trip her, falling on her rear end.  He helped her up immediately, the two squaring off once more, Molly’s back to the door.

“This time get serious, no holding back, remember your weak spots,” he told her, gesturing with his hands for her to come forward.

Just as Sherlock dodged her right hook, John opened the door, causing Sherlock to look up at the precise moment that Molly brought her knee up to collide forcefully with his crotch, not having noticed his distraction.

Sherlock yelped and crumpled to the floor, assuming the fetal position and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh my god, Sherlock, I’m sorry!” Molly dropped to his side, hands on her cheeks as John came to stand next to her, wincing a bit himself.

“You did tell her not to hold back, mate,” he said jokingly, trying not to not smile too much as Sherlock struggled to regain his breath.  He walked to the kitchen, extracting an icepack from the freezer and made sure it wasn’t a biohazard before he held it out to Sherlock, who was still lying on the floor wheezing.

“Thank you,” he croaked about an octave too high as he reached one hand out to take the icepack.  Slowly he allowed himself to unfurl, remaining supine on the floor with the icepack clutched against his groin with one hand and the other hand covering his eyes.

“Sherlock, I really am sorry.  I thought you would block it,” Molly whined as she stroked his hair tentatively.  “I’ll go get you some Paracetamol,” she said as she removed his hand from his eyes and leaned down to kiss his forehead.  Sherlock nodded, opening one eye and giving her a weak smile.

Molly ran from the room after shooting John a look of embarrassment, heading for the bathroom.

“So, aside from the casual assault, I take it from that little display that things are going well with Molly?” John asked, transferring Abigail to a sitting up position on his lap.  She gave a bright smile and a laugh, clearly very amused by the entire situation. 

Sherlock gingerly rose to his feet, using the coffee table for leverage as he hobbled over to take the seat on the sofa next to John.  “Yes, Molly is usually much nicer when dealing with my genitals, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his voice nearly back to normal.

John shuddered.  “Okay.  We are so not having any conversation revolving around you, Molly, and your genitals.”

Sherlock chuckled.  “You asked.  But yes, we’re…whatever you want to call it.”

“Dating?”

Sherlock didn’t answer before Molly reemerged, dressed for work and carrying tablets and a glass of water in her hands.  “Gotta run,” she said, handing him the pills, “again, really sorry,” she leaned down and cupped his cheek as she gave him a quick kiss on the mouth, leaning over to whisper something in his ear.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly-kissing it isn’t going to make it feel bet-Oh.  _Oh_.”

 Molly had the good nature to look embarrassed before standing.  “So much for subtlety.  Bye, John!  Bye, Abigail, love!  Sherlock, make sure you eat something today!”  She ran out, Sherlock smiling at the door.  John stared at him with mock horror. 

“Like I said,” Sherlock replied, standing and heading toward the kitchen.  “Whatever you want to call it.”

“You don’t deserve her.”  John stood and followed him, shocked to see his former flatmate rummaging in the refrigerator and extracting what appeared to be leftover Chinese food.  He gave him a look of disbelief.

“What?” Sherlock said, extracting a cold piece of chicken and popping it in his mouth before turning to get a fork.

“Two years I lived here and tried to force food down your throat and all it took was a pretty pair of blue eyes,” he shook his head again.

“Her eyes are brown,” Sherlock said with contempt, stuffing another bite of food in his mouth.  “You can go sleep now.”  Putting the container back down on the counter, he wiped his hands on his trousers before reaching out to take Abigail out of John’s arms.  “I’m going to teach you how to identify different mold cultures,” he held her with one arm while taking another bite of chicken.  “You can sleep upstairs, that bed hasn’t been used in a while,” he grinned at John with one eyebrow raised.

“I don’t need to hear about you sex life, Sherlock,” John bit out, unable to hide an answering smirk. 

Sherlock dramatically covered one of Abigail’s ears.  “Not in front of the children, John!”  He chuckled again before walking back to the living room and turning on the television. Sherlock continued to discuss mold cultures with Abigail as a news program played in the background.  John had just decided to take Sherlock up on his offer of a nap when he heard Sherlock suddenly stop his speech midsentence.  Curious, he stepped in the living room and saw Sherlock glaring wide-eyed at the screen.

 _“ATTEMPTED UNDERGROUND BOMBER ESCAPES”_ ran across the bottom of the screen as the reporter continued the story. 

“It is uncertain how the alleged tube bomber and ex-politician Sebastian Moran escaped from his confinement, but sources tell us that he had exhibited psychotic behavior while imprisoned-scrawling the letters ‘IOU’ on the walls of his cell and requesting photographs of renown criminal James Moriarty.  Anyone having any information on Moran or his whereabouts should contact New Scotland Yard immediately.  Moran should be considered armed and dangerous.”

John looked to Sherlock, whose face had gone nearly translucent.  Taking Abigail back into his own arms, he swallowed once before speaking.  “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know.  Moran wasn’t a part of Moriarty’s network, I would have known.  Every member was accounted for except-“

He stopped suddenly, his entire body tensing.

“What?  What is it?”

“Molly,” he said, running out the door before John had a chance to stop him.


	22. Shocking Developments

“Come on Molly, pick up,” Sherlock dialed her number again as he raced down the street toward St. Bart’s.  In the back of his mind arose the thought that he wished he had grabbed his coat before rushing out into the January morning, but the forefront was _MOLLY MOLLY MOLLY MOLLY._

Finally, the phone clicked and Molly’s voice came over the receiver.  “Sherlock?  Is everything okay?  You never call when you can text.”

Sherlock wrenched open the door to the pathology department and practically flew down the hallway.  “Where are you?” he yelled into the phone.

“I’m at Bart’s.  Just about to walk into the morgue.  Why?”

Sherlock hurtled down the hallway just as a bloodcurdling scream echoed both through the phone and from down the adjoining hall.  Turning the final corner to the morgue, he burst through the doors and ran headlong into Molly, who had stopped just inside.

The room was completely trashed.  The only light came from auxiliary units mounted on the wall, casting eerie shadows about the room.  Broken glass and paper littered the floor, tables lay upturned, and the door to Molly’s office hung awkwardly off its hinges as though someone had attempted to rip it from the jamb.  Most disconcerting, however, were the bodies of two interns strewn across the autopsy tables, fresh bullet wounds between their eyes.

Sherlock snapped back to attention at the sight of a shadow moving in the back of the morgue just as a gunshot rang out and smashed into the glass of the door behind them.

“DOWN!” he yelled, throwing Molly to the floor and landing on top of her, muffling her scream.  Rising to a crouch, he half dragged her to the door of her office and threw her inside, shutting the door the best he could and hefting a heavy examination table in front of it.

“Sherlock, behind you!” Molly called, watching through the window of the office.  Sherlock ducked behind the metal table just in time, a bullet lodging itself in the steel where his head had been a moment before. 

Sebastian Moran stepped forward, bathing him in the ethereal light of the emergency lamps, a wicked smile crossing his face. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here, Holmes.  I just came to kill your girlfriend, then off I pop back to the boss.  Think you’ve seen some of the boss’s work-take it _Tom_ sends his regards.”

Seeking cover, Sherlock dove behind one of the overturned autopsy tables, forcing Moran to step further into the lighted area of the room.  “I suppose you won’t tell me who that boss is, then?”  Sherlock continued a silent crawl behind the discarded equipment, determined to keep Moran talking.

“Not who it should be.  To be perfectly honest with you, Holmes, I wasn’t even supposed to be here.  But see, I believe in an eye for an eye, and you took the person I cared most about, so I’m taking yours.”

“James Moriarty didn’t care about you,” he spat back, ducking behind another table as another shot ricocheted off the metal drawers.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mate.  I was his right-hand man.  And you went and killed him,” Moran fired three shots successively, each bullet pinging off the table behind which Sherlock was currently crouched. 

“James Moriarty killed himself, but I wouldn’t expect someone like you to know that,” Sherlock rolled out from behind the table, coming to his feet next to Moran.

“Someone like me?” Moran asked, pointing the gun at Sherlock’s forehead.

“Someone who can’t count,” Sherlock lunged forward as Moran attempted to fire from the empty chamber.  Knocking him to the ground, the gun skittered away as the two men grappled for purchase on the glass-covered floor. 

Moran delivered a swift punch to Sherlock’s face, sending him flailing onto the floor.  As Moran made to come down on him once more, Sherlock pushed up with both legs at once, effectively propelling Moran backwards into the autopsy lamp, sending sparks flying as the bulb smashed into a thousand pieces, exposing the electrical workings beneath. 

As Sherlock made to lunge once more, Moran thrust the lamp in front of him, Sherlock’s fist connecting with the exposed wires rather than Moran’s face.  A deafening pop rang out as light filled the room, Sherlock thrown backwards with the force from the electric shock, landing hard on his back.  Moran smiled as he stepped forward, picking up the gun from the floor and reloading. 

Just as the hammer clicked in place, a stream of scalding hot water hit him dead in the face.  Molly directed the stream next at his hand, causing him to drop the gun once more.  Dropping the hose used to sanitize autopsy tables, she made her way across the room, retrieving the gun as Moran clutched his singed face. 

He looked up at her with menace, taking a step forward when an electronic ping rang out.  Stopping in his tracks, he produced a mobile phone from his pocket and read the message that had come through, his face immediately changing from homicidal to slightly frightened.  He quickly wiped the look from his face and replaced the phone in his pocket. 

“Looks like today’s your lucky day, pet.  Enjoy your crispy detective.”

Before Molly had a chance to react, Moran had run out the back door of the morgue.  Nearly frozen in fear, Molly dropped the gun on the nearest table and rushed to Sherlock where he lay motionless on the floor. 

His right hand was badly burned from the collision with the lamp, still slightly smoking.  Molly reached to his neck, feeling for a pulse and finding none. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she repeated, checking to see if he was breathing.  Clasping her hands together, she began compressing his chest with as much force as she could manage, desperately trying to not slip into hysterics.  After five chest compressions, she knelt down and delivered two quick breaths to his mouth before continuing.  After her eighth compression she felt a nauseating crack, Sherlock’s ribs giving way beneath her panicked attempts to bring him back. 

Tears streamed from her eyes as she continued, finally a gasp issuing forth from the unconscious detective, his eyes shooting open, red and watery.  He took several deep breaths, punctuated with coughs as Molly sat back on her heels and buried her face in her hands. 

“Molly-what happened, where’s Moran?” Sherlock groaned, trying and failing to sit up.  She pushed him slowly back to the floor.

“He’s gone.  You almost died.  You _did_ die, you idiot!” she struck him lightly in the chest, now sobbing openly on the floor.

“Molly, it’s okay, I’m fi--“

Sherlock stopped midsentence with a high-pitched yelp, falling back to the floor and grimacing in pain.

“What?  What is it?” Molly screamed, fearing his heart stopping again.

“My arm.  I think it’s broken,” Sherlock reached over and grasped his shoulders, his face screwed up, sweat beginning to form on his brow.

Molly reached out and gently unbuttoned his shirt, grateful for the lack of his enormous coat.  Sliding the material away from his skin, she lightly dusted her fingers over his shoulder, Sherlock jumping at the sensation. 

“Posterior shoulder dislocation.  It probably happened when you got shocked,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady through her tears.

“Well, can you reduce it?” Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

“I haven’t done that since medical school, Sherlock,” she answered, trying to remember what she had learned years ago.

“So you have done it, then.”

“Yes, but, you can just go upstairs, they can do it in A&E.”

“Molly,” he pleaded, looking directly into her eyes, “please.”

She let out a deep breath, shakily getting to her feet.  “Sherlock, this is going to hurt.”

“I know.  Just do it.”

Grasping his wrist, she gently raised his arm to a forty-five degree angle, kicking her shoe off and placing her foot under his arm to brace herself.  “Ready?”

He nodded as he grabbed the leg of a nearby table, closing his eyes and taking a sharp inhalation of breath.

With all the force she could muster, Molly pulled back steadily, trying to ignore the muffled whimpers of the man on the floor.  With a definitive pop, the joint slid back in place, both Sherlock and Molly relaxing slightly.  Laying his arm gently across his chest, she sank to the floor and willed her heart to return to a normal pace.

“Molly, promise me something,” Sherlock said, his eyes still closed.  Molly looked over, unable to even verbalize a response.  “When this is all over, we’re going on holiday.”

They were both just barely able to garner enough strength for a smile as the doors to the morgue burst open, half of New Scotland Yard streaming in, led by John Watson.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Well, your chest sounds normal but I’d like an electrocardiogram to be safe.  And we’ll need to x-ray your shoulder to make sure it’s properly in place,” John took his stethoscope and replaced it around his neck as Molly helped Sherlock secure his arm into a sling. 

“That will have to wait, I have to find Moran before the trail goes cold,” Sherlock stood, fumbling to button his shirt with only one hand, the other heavily bandaged covering a rather severe burn on his palm.

“You can’t be serious,” Molly replied, shooing his hand away and buttoning his shirt for him.  “Sherlock, your heart just stopped.  For the second time in six months.  You need to rest.”

“He’s not going to stop, Molly.  Moran and whoever he’s working for will not rest until I am dead,” Sherlock looked at John, hoping for support and receiving none.

“How do you know he’s after you?” Molly asked.

“IOU,” John replied, causing Molly to look at him in confusion.

“IOU-you were muttering that-in the lab before you asked me to help you fake your death,” she looked at Sherlock, taken slightly aback by the wild ferocity in his eyes.

“Brother, dear, if you’ve finished your ambitions to become a bug zapper, I have the CCTV footage you requested,” Mycroft stood in the doorway of the commandeered hospital room, a tablet in one hand, Sherlock’s coat in the other.

Sherlock leapt off the table and walked in between John and Molly, accepting his coat from Mycroft with one hand.  After an awkward attempt at swinging it over his bad shoulder, Mycroft rolled his eyes and took the coat, holding it out so Sherlock could slide his good arm into the sleeve.  He hefted the other side over the arm in its sling and buttoned the top button before looking back up at Sherlock.

“Um, thank you,” Sherlock replied quietly, Mycroft nodding gently.

With a swish of his coat and no goodbye, Sherlock took the tablet from Mycroft and swept out of the room.

“Are you really going to let him go out there and get himself killed?  For real this time?” John asked angrily, pointing in Mycroft’s face.

“Dr. Watson, do you honestly believe I would send my little brother into danger without keeping a very watchful eye on him?”  With that, he extracted a mobile phone from his pocket and held it up, revealing a GPS map screen and a tiny blinking dot now moving away from “SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’S HOSPITAL.”

“The tablet has GPS,” John nodded, reaching out for the mobile, surprised when instead of him Mycroft handed it to Molly.

“Dr. Hooper, I expect the trail shall run cold for him in approximately four hours, at which time he shall undoubtedly return to Baker Street in a huff.  You have my word that if his path…strays at any time to a less than reputable area, I shall contact you immediately,” he reached out for Molly to give him the mobile back. 

Handing it back, she grabbed Mycroft’s wrist, forcing him to look at her face.  “Promise me you’re not going to send him into something where he won’t come back… _again_ ,” the last word was spoken with the subtext of her knowledge of Sherlock’s mission in Eastern Europe, of which, Molly had figured out, had most likely been a suicide mission.

“You have my word, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her, “and might I say, your pairing with my brother may be a dangerous one.”

“I know what I signed up for,” she answered, her gaze never wavering.

Mycroft turned to leave, followed by John, who turned to address Molly one more time before leaving.  “Take care of him, please?”


	23. Black, Two Sugars

The next three days were a complete whirlwind for Molly with Sherlock breezing in and out of the flat at all hours, stopping only to tack new information to the wall above the fireplace.  He neither ate nor slept, stopping only once on the second day to shower after a particularly nasty run-in with a member of his homeless network.

On the third day with no word, John and Mary decided to head to 221B in the hopes of new information, and it was with them that Molly found herself worrying about Sherlock on a completely new level.

“He hasn’t eaten or slept in three days, maybe longer.  He won’t listen to me, it’s like I’m not even here,” she told John since Mary had disappeared briefly to lay Abigail down for a nap in Molly’s old bedroom.  She had continued sleeping in Sherlock’s bed even with his absence, hoping that he would at least get his head down for a few hours, but her efforts to coax him into sleep were met with irritation and well-placed insults. 

Now, Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, every now and then stopping to glance at a file or photograph provided to him from either Bill Wiggins or Mycroft.  His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face sporting a heavy stubble unlike any Molly had seen outside of his most recent relapse. The sling for his shoulder had long-ago been discarded against medical advice and lay forgotten on the desk.

“I haven’t seen him like this since he was on drugs,” Molly confided in John quietly.

“For god’s sake Molly, can you stop your insipid ramblings about my _well-being_?” Sherlock spat sarcastically as he flopped himself into his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

“She wouldn’t have to if you weren’t acting like a toddler,” John spat back, starting to rise from his chair but lowered back down with a calming hand from Mary, who had returned downstairs.

From downstairs came the sound of the outside door opening, Mrs. Hudson having long-since gone to visit her sister when the yelling from upstairs became too much for her to handle. 

Mycroft and Lestrade stepped into the room, taking in the sight of the extremely bedraggled Sherlock and instead greeting the rest of the group.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.  “You have news,” he stated rather than questioned.

“We have tracked Moran’s location to the Mandarin Oriental in Hyde Park,” Mycroft stated, watching Sherlock stand and approach him.

“Brilliant, I’ll get my coat,” he made to exit but was stopped by Lestrade’s hand firmly placed on his chest, pushing him back.

“Now, come on, you can’t be serious.  I can’t bloody-well let you go barging into a fugitive’s bolt-hole,” Lestrade commented, gesturing wildly toward the door in indignation.

“I’d like to see you try to stop me,” Sherlock narrowed his blood-red eyes, straightening himself to full height.

“Now, now, children, calm down,” John began, “Sherlock, sit down and let’s figure this out.”

“Please, John, do stick to doing what you’re good at-though considering you haven’t been to the surgery in nineteen days you’re probably just trying to decide how to tell Mary you were fired,” Sherlock said without turning his head.

“He did tell me actually, now why don’t you sit down before you hurt anymore of the people you need,” Mary added, trying to calm the tense room.

“I don’t need anybody,” Sherlock asserted acidly.

The room was silent as Sherlock’s words lilted in the air.  Molly stood and quickly walked into the kitchen, trying her best to not betray any emotion.

“Molly,” John called, starting to follow her, stopping directly next to Sherlock, forcing him to look down.

“Not good, mate.”

“I don’t have time for this petty drama, John,” Sherlock spun on his heel and returned to his place near the wall, studying his collage of materials.

Stepping into the kitchen, John found Molly putting the finishing touches on the tea tray, picking it up and heading back out into the sitting room.

“Are you all right?” John asked, placing his hand comfortingly on Molly’s shoulder.

“As well as I can be,” she joked half-heartedly, sniffing and using her shoulder to wipe her eyes. 

“He’s being a complete git, but you know he doesn’t mean it.”

“I know,” she answered, giving John a weak smile.  “I’m just ready for it to be over.”

John returned her smile, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

“Tea?” she asked.  John went to pick up a mug just as Molly swept the tray out of his reach handing him a mug herself.

Re-entering the living room, Molly made a circuit around the room, passing out tea and coffee to everyone’s liking, saving Sherlock for last.

“Thought you could do with a coffee,” she said softly, handing him the last remaining mug.  He accepted it without a word and drank from it deeply, wincing at the taste and practically snarling back at her.

“You know I only take two sugars,” he spat, cringing as he took another drink, more dependent upon the caffeine than the taste.

“Silly me, thought it was four,” Molly set the tray down and crossed the room, taking her spot on the sofa. 

“Well, the obvious choice is to confront Moran outside the hotel, so he will lead us to his informant’s location,” Sherlock turned to address Mycroft, completely ignoring Lestrade’s huff of disapproval.

“It’ll be easier to take him down inside the hotel,” Lestrade started, stopped by Mycroft raising his hand.

“This information was not acquired neatly.  Moran could very-well know we have his location and lead you into hostile territory.  You cannot take him down yourself,” he lowered his gaze at his brother.

“Then you shouldn’t have told me where he is,” Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and made for the door.

Molly sprang up from the sofa, shouting.  “You can’t go!”

Sherlock dramatically turned toward her, his expression hateful.  “What, is this some sort of desperate plea for me to stay here?  Some wild declaration of love to stop me from riding out on my white horse to save the day?  Save your tears, Molly, I really don’t have time for it.”

Molly’s lip quivered slightly, but she stopped it quickly and stood straighter.  “Our…relationship has nothing to do with this.  It’s a stupid plan and you know it.”

“I don’t do ‘relationships,’ Molly.  Not really my area.”

A collective gasp issued from Lestrade and Mary, the former looking like he was ready to pummel Sherlock. 

“You’ll be sorry you said that later,” Molly said, pursing her lips and continuing to look Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock scoffed and turned to the door again.

“Mycroft,” Molly said, “could you take about one step to your right?”

Furrowing his brow, Mycroft looked to his right and without question sidestepped closer to the door, causing Sherlock to bite out a short laugh.  He turned around to face Molly again.

“What?  You think my brother is going to stop me?” He swayed slightly on the spot, his angry demeanor slipping slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“He won’t have to.  I just did,” Molly looked at him with a sad smile.  Sherlock screwed up his face in confusion before swaying once more on the spot.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Molly picked up her hand and gently pushed on his forehead, watching as Sherlock’s eyes completely glassed over and he fell backwards, directly into Mycroft’s unsuspecting arms.  Mycroft gently led him to the floor, a look of alarm on his features.

Molly turned slowly and addressed the four stunned faces staring at her.  “Don’t drink out of the blue mug.”

John was the first one to speak.  “You two were made for each other.”

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The silence in the room was somewhat interrupted by Sherlock’s loud snoring, his head awkwardly bent as if using Mycroft’s shoes as a pillow.  Everyone looked down at him for a moment, one by one returning their stares to Molly.

“Oh, for goodness sake, I didn’t kill him,” she crossed her arms in front of her, walking over to pick up the suspicious mug.  “He’ll wake up in a couple hours,” she peeked into the mug.  Seeing that it was mostly drained, she gave an uncertain smile.  “Or…it might be closer to tomorrow.  He’ll wake up tomorrow.”

“What did you give him?” asked John, trying not to make a spectacle of the fact that he was casually leaning down to check Sherlock’s pulse.

“I am a doctor, John,” Molly said flatly.  “I gave him some Lorazepam.  God knows he could use it right now, anyway.”

“Well, not that I’m trying to argue, but there is a difference between the dosage for a normal man and the dosage for an elephant,” he pulled open Sherlock’s eyes and listened to his breathing, finally sitting back on his heels.  “I suppose he’s fine, but he’s totally out of it, he’ll have to be carried to his room.”

“I’m sure Mycroft and I can handle it,” Molly said, quickly catching the surprised eye of Mycroft, who instantly wiped the expression from his features.

“Indeed, Dr. Watson.  Though it has been many years since I last had to carry my little brother to bed, I’m sure the information hasn’t been lost entirely.”

John, Mary, and Lestrade left, comically stepping over the still-snoring form of Sherlock in the doorway. 

“Well then,” began Mycroft, having removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, “I suppose we’d better move him before he begins drooling on the carpet.”

“Sorry about this,” said Molly, moving to Sherlock’s feet.  “I just thought he’d never forgive me if John had to put him to bed.  And I promised myself I wouldn’t let Greg film it.”

Surprising even himself, Mycroft let out a soft chuckle.  “It wouldn’t be the first time for either of those occurrences, I assure you.”

Mycroft slid his hands beneath Sherlock’s arms and lifted his upper body, careful to not let his head snap backwards or to jostle his injured shoulder.  Molly moved him and grabbed his legs, the two of them picking up his lanky frame easily. 

“I know I shouldn’t be, but for once I’m thankful he’s so skinny,” Mycroft grunted, carrying the majority of Sherlock’s weight toward his bedroom.  Sherlock, meanwhile, was completely dead to the world, his eyelids not even fluttering at the movement.  Together they managed to guide his unconscious form into the bedroom and onto the edge of his bed.

“He’s going to be furious with me when he wakes up,” Molly put her hands on her hips as she watched Sherlock’s deep and even breaths.

“I think you misunderstand my brother’s aptitudes for emotion,” Mycroft had moved to Sherlock’s bureau, opening the top drawer and closing it when he realized it did not contain pajamas. 

“Third drawer down,” Molly added helpfully, grinning slightly when Mycroft turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow. 

“Another shining piece of evidence toward my case.”

Molly looked at him in question as he drew out a plain grey t-shirt. 

“What do you mean?” Molly asked, unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and helping Mycroft wrestle it off of him. 

“I simply mean that never in his life has Sherlock allowed himself to become close to another person.  I thought perhaps he had some sort of romantic feelings for John Watson, but obviously I was wrong on that front.”

“Many people on the blog would disagree with you there,” deadpanned Molly as they struggled to get the t-shirt over Sherlock’s lolling head.

“I think this was actually easier when he was a baby,” Mycroft snorted as Molly unceremoniously unzipped Sherlock’s trousers before leaning down to remove his shoes and socks so she could pull them off of him.  Once he was in just his t-shirt and shorts, the two of them hefted him to the center of the bed and covered him with the duvet, all while Sherlock made no movement whatsoever.

“What I’m trying to say is that he cares about you more than he has ever cared about another person in his life. Whether he has made that clear or not, I have doubt, but trust me when I say you’ve made him a better man,” Mycroft straightened himself and walked out the door.  Molly heard the door shut a few seconds later, leaving her alone in the room with the sleeping Sherlock.

She smiled slightly as she tucked the blanket in around him, his face turning ever-so-slightly toward her hand as she brought it gently across his cheek as he slept.


	24. Waking the Dragon

Sherlock was running for his life.  His chest burned and his lungs heaved as he ran through the Serbian forest, the sounds of his assailants drawing nearer through the trees.  Blood soaked the back of his favorite tartan dressing gown, the fresh wounds seeping beneath the soft fabric.  Suddenly, the trees melted away, leaving him falling, falling from the rooftop of St. Bart’s, though this time with no one to catch him.  He screamed as he fell, preparing for the fatal impact, instead feeling the soft cushion of foam beneath him.

Sitting up, he tried to reach out to hold his still-sore shoulder, only to find his arms restrained.  Struggling, the straightjacket only seemed to get tighter as the door to the room opened, a dapperly dressed Jim Moriarty strolling in carrying an umbrella. 

“Where’s Molly?” shouted Sherlock, his voice getting lost in the hollow vastness of the padded room.

“Dead.  They’re all dead, Sherlock-and it’s all _your_ fault,” said Moriarty, gesturing with his head to the room behind Sherlock.  As Sherlock turned around, the straightjacket fell away, revealing his familiar black coat, the wool causing his body to sweat uncontrollably.  His eyes met the sight behind him-eight identical black granite tombstones, golden letters distorted through his tears. 

_John.  Mary.  Molly.  Mum.  Dad.  Mycroft.  Lestrade.  Mrs. Hudson._

Sherlock fell to his knees, holding his hands against his ears as Moriarty began his heartless laugh, echoing through the graveyard.  Sherlock screamed, feeling himself falling again through space, fog, and a seemingly-endless whiteness.

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Molly shook Sherlock’s good shoulder again, gently willing him to wake.  His brow glistened with sweat as his head thrashed back and forth.

“No, no, no…” he repeated, eyes still closed with sleep.

“Sherlock, wake up!  It’s me!”

His eyes flew open as he scrambled upwards in bed to a sitting position, Molly trying to support him lest he re-injure his arm.

“Shhh…relax.  You were having a nightmare.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth across the room as his chest heaved.  He seemed to finally notice Molly’s position and blinked heavily, his eyes feeling as though they had only recently been glued shut.  He tried to shake his head but was stopped by both of Molly’s hands grasping his cheeks. 

“You’re probably going to feel a little funny-I’m sure the drugs haven’t completely worn off yet,” she lowered her hands to his wrist, taking his pulse quietly.

Slowly the fog lifted from Sherlock’s brain, leaving him hazy, but aware.

“What time is it?” he started, throwing the blankets off his body and moving to the edge of the bed.

“A little after 3am,” sputtered Molly, hopping backwards to avoid being knocked over by Sherlock jumping out of bed, swaying slightly.  “Sherlock, you should really lay back down, you’re probably going to experience some dizziness-“

“I have to go find Moran,” he snarled, locating his discarded trousers and slipping them on.  “Although thanks to you the trail has probably gone cold.”

Deciding that buttoning a shirt was beyond his capabilities at this point, he opted to wear only the t-shirt as he made his way out to the living room.

“Sherlock, you know it would have done absolutely no good for you to go rushing out to confront Moran on your own,” Molly followed him out of the bedroom.

“He tried to kill me, Molly!  Moriarty tried to have him kill John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted, turning back to her and throwing his hands wildly into the air.

“Jim is dead, Sherlock!” Molly shouted back, her voice rising to meet his.

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry- _Jim_ ,” he mocked, “I forgot you were on such _intimate_ terms with him.  Well, if and when I see _Jim_ I’ll be sure to tell him that you only dumped him because you were fawning after me,” he spat.

Molly stopped, not wanting to rise to the bait.  “Shut up, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know what I’m talking about?  All those times you asked me for coffee?  All the times I got everything I wanted just by making moon eyes at you at the appropriate time?  You haven’t had a real relationship in years, not since your dad died, you hadn’t even--“

Molly couldn’t stop the slap that erupted from her hand, the sound of her palm striking his face ringing loudly throughout the suddenly silent flat.

“Don’t you dare,” she started, only to be interrupted by Sherlock’s derisive snort.

“That only works when I’m high, Molly, but this time the drugs are your fault.  Perhaps you want to go write about this on the blog you keep that no one reads?  Well, no one but total psychopaths who you apparently end up dating,” he turned and headed toward the door. 

“Better a psychopath than a freak,” Molly sobbed, tears freely flowing down her face.

She regretted the word the moment it left her lips, deepened by the fact that Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly to face her.  The look on his face was one she would never forget-complete and utter hurt.  Betrayal. 

“Sherlock, I didn’t mean--“

“No, it’s fine, Molly.  Don’t worry. As soon as I finish this I can have your things moved back to your flat and you can go back to your life,” he turned and slammed the door behind him, Molly remaining immobile in the middle of the room.

She slowly sank into his chair, sobbing.

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_John, I messed up.  Sherlock left.  I think he’s going to do something stupid.-M_

_Left?  How is he even awake?-J_

_He had some sort of nightmare. Woke him up. We had a fight.  Can you come over?-M_

_Be there in a tic.-J_

_I’m coming too, Sweetie.-Mary_

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Molly clutched the steaming mug of tea in her hands as she sobbed into Mary’s shoulder, recounting everything that had led up to Sherlock storming from the flat.

“It’s going to be ok, Molls, he does this all the time when he’s on a case,” said John, gently swaying Abigail back and forth in his arms. 

“John, this isn’t a normal case, I said horrible things,” Molly said weakly. 

John was saved having to answer by the sound of the door opening and footsteps on the stairs.  Molly rose from her seat excitedly, visibly deflating when Mycroft opened the door to the flat.  She turned and flopped back into the chair without a word.

“Well, isn’t this a warm reception?” Mycroft droned.

“Sorry, she was hoping for a different Holmes,” answered John.  “I take it we don’t have to fill you in?”

“I believe I understand the basics.  I’ll leave the finer details to those more _intimately_ involved.”

“Mycroft, do you know where he is?  Is he okay?” Molly finally addressed him, wiping her face and walking toward him.

“Unfortunately I lost him from CCTV surveillance about an hour ago.  He does that every now and then when he wants to sulk in peace.  I wouldn’t worry, Miss Hooper.”

“ _Doctor Hooper_ ,” said Mary and John in unison.

At that moment the tension was punctuated by a shrill ringing. Molly looked around quizzically, roaming toward the sound.

“That’s Sherlock’s mobile.  He must have left it here,” she said, extracting the mobile from his coat pocket.  With a wince she realized that the coat’s presence meant that he had gone out in just a t-shirt, and was undoubtedly freezing at this point.  Holding the ringing device in her hand, she approached the small group gathered in the living room and pressed the button to answer.  The voice that issued forth from the speaker froze her to the core:

“Hello there, love.  Been a long time,” Moriarty’s voice was unmistakable, his Irish lilt adding a degree of menace to his words.  “Now you’re going to listen closely, pet, because if you don’t do exactly as I say, people will die.  People you care about.  Come to the sweet factory.  In Addlestone.  You remember where.  Come alone.  Now off you pop.”


	25. The Final Problem

“We have to go,” Molly said, still holding the phone between them.

“Absolutely not,” said John, passing Abigail off to Mary.

“John, that message was supposed to be for Sherlock!  If he doesn’t show up, Moriarty is going to kill someone!”  Molly pleaded.

“Jim Moriarty is dead!  Have you never seen a spy movie?” John asked, his hands in the air.  “This has got to be a trap.  Sherlock shows up to some ‘factory show-down’ trying to be the hero and gets shot in the head by someone pretending to be Moriarty!”

“John!” Mary shouted, giving him a sharp slap to the shoulder.

“As much as I dislike footwork myself, I fear Miss…excuse me…Doctor Hooper is correct,” Mycroft noted, taking the mobile out of Molly’s hands.  The three others stared at him as if he had grown an extra head.

“You can’t be serious,” John scoffed, hands now on his hips.

“I am deathly serious, Doctor Watson,” he took the mobile and picked up Sherlock’s abandoned coat.  “You see, the fact that my brother left both his coat and his phone here means I have absolutely zero means of tracking him.”

“What’s his coat got to do with anything?” inquired Mary, rocking a now sleeping Abigail back and forth absentmindedly.

“GPS tracker sewn into the collar,” Mycroft replied nonchalantly, tossing the coat over the chair.

“You have got to be kidding,” Molly said with one eyebrow raised.

Mycroft shrugged off the comment, moving toward the door.  “I’m going.  If you choose to come, that is your prerogative.”

“I’m in,” stated Molly, joining him near the door.

John looked to Mary, who nodded once and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek before watching him join Molly and Mycroft, the three of them descending the stairs together.

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The abandoned factory was just as John remembered it from the kidnapping case he had worked with Sherlock so many years ago.  His chest gave a painful twinge as he remembered the last case on which he had accompanied his best friend before he “died.” 

The three walked to the south wall of the largest room, two stone steps leading to a nondescript door into what Molly assumed were previously offices.  The room was completely silent; Molly’s heart the only sound pounding loudly, blood pulsing through her ears. 

Mycroft surprised John and Molly by holding out his arms to either side, effectively stopping their forward motion.  They both looked at him with confused expressions before he began to speak loudly and confidently to the seemingly empty room.

“Moran, let us skip the dramatics.”

Sebastian Moran emerged from behind the door, a gun pointed directly at Mycroft’s head.  Mycroft didn’t flinch.

“Lose the gun, Doc,” imparted Moran, moving the gun to point at John’s head instead.  John removed the Browning from his waistband and set it on the floor, kicking it out of reach.  “And you, Holmes, the umbrella.”

Molly had long suspected that Mycroft Holmes carried some sort of government-issued super weapon within the confines of his umbrella, and this seemed to confirm that notion. 

“Now that we are unarmed, are you going to inform us as to why you wanted my brother here?” Mycroft raised his arms with his palms out, his voice smooth and confident.

“We didn’t want Sherlock to come, we wanted you,” Moran smiled viciously at Mycroft.

“But you called Sherlock’s phone,” Molly blurted out, immediately chastising herself for stating the obvious.

“And we knew you’d have it,” Moran said icily.

“How did you know?” asked John, but before an answer was given Mycroft held up hand to silence him.

“Where is he?” he asked, his expression changing rapidly from indifference to concern. 

“Oh, no worries, we’ve been taking real good care of him,” Moran opened the door and reached inside, pulling Sherlock into the room.  His legs and arms were bound with wire cables, causing him to immediately fall to the floor face-first, his legs dangling over the edge of the stone steps.  His cry of pain was muffled by a large piece of duct tape over his mouth.    Molly gasped and covered her mouth when he made eye-contact with her, his face a bloody mess of cuts and bruises.  His shirt had been torn in several places and was stained with blood in both the front and back, and his previously injured shoulder was cocked back at an unnatural angle, clearly dislocated once more. 

“What do you want?” John asked, stepping forward and trying to control his rage. 

“Revenge,” answered a voice from the open door.  All eyes immediately flew to the door, the only sound in the room the labored breathing of Sherlock around his tape, as a figure stepped forth into the room.  Molly gasped, while John shook his head in disbelief.

“Janine?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.  “Miss Hawkins, while I am aware that my brother betrayed you in a rather shocking manner, don’t you think this is going a little overboard?”

“Oh, Myc,” Mycroft visible cringed at the name.  “You don’t think this is all about my little ex here, do you?”

Janine stepped forward and placed her foot on the side of Sherlock’s face, pushing it roughly into the concrete.  After a brief kick, she stepped away, Sherlock moving his body awkwardly to lie on his back, legs still draped over the steps on which Janine stood.

“No, no, no.  My revenge stems from something much more primitive.  Oh, and my name’s not Hawkins, by the way,” she said with a sing-song quality to her voice.  From her pocket she withdrew a small rectangular object and held it to her mouth.

“My name is Janine Moriarty-hi!” The voice that issued from the device was not hers but that of Jim Moriarty, the box clearly a voice modifier of some sort.  “Anyway, I believe you knew my brother?”


	26. Shot in the Dark

Mycroft, Molly, and John stood stunned, unable to speak. Moran kept the gun trained on them as Janine smiled mischievously.  John was the first to move, stepping forward with his hands raised.

“Janine, I don’t know what’s going on, but we can-“

Without blinking, Janine brought her full weight down on Sherlock’s leg, bending it backwards against the steps, a sickening crack echoing throughout the room.  Sherlock let out an agonizing scream behind the tape, tears involuntarily streaming from his eyes.  Janine allowed him to roll out of the way, lying flat on the top step, stomach down.  Even from a distance it was clear that his leg was broken, the detective struggling to catch his breath, eyes squeezed shut.

“Stop it!”  Molly screamed, afraid to step forward in the event that Janine inflicted some other punishment on Sherlock.

“Oh, that’s right, you’re Sherl’s girlfriend now, right?  I have to admit, I figured he was gay after all the times he refused to sleep with me, but no hard feelings.  Tom said ‘hi’ by the way,” Janine shifted her gaze to Mycroft, the menacingly playful expression melting away to pure hatred.

“My beef is with you, _Myc_ ,” she spat out the last syllable like a curse, beginning a slow circle around Sherlock on the floor, who was still panting around the tape, his face turning a sickly grey.  Moran moved slightly out of the way, watching the proceedings with an amused smile.  “Tie them up, Seb.”

The three of them were sat back to back while Moran bonded their hands with zip-ties, Janine holding the gun teasingly against Sherlock’s temple while he did so.

“You see, Myc-I know that my brother Jim shot himself on the roof that day, and it breaks my heart,” from beneath her jacket she unsheathed a large hunting knife with the hand not holding the gun, the blade glistening in the shabby factory lighting.  “But all of this started with you.  You baited my brother into everything he did, so I baited yours.”

Janine kneeled down beside Sherlock, jerking his head up by his hair, pressing the tip of the blade into the fleshy part of his cheek.  A tiny drop of blood issued from the small puncture, Sherlock screwing his eyes up tight in an effort not to make a sound.  “I flirted at the wedding, figuring him to be like every other stupid male in the world, but this fishy was just a wee bit harder to catch.  Huh, Sherl?”

In one violent move she ripped the tape from his mouth and dropped his hair, his head coming down quicker than he could stop it and rapping against the pavement.  Clenching his teeth but still not opening his eyes, he spoke with a wavering voice.

“You’re just as crazy as he was.”

“JIM. WAS. NOT. CRAZY!” She screamed, every word punctuated by a swift kick to Sherlock’s abdomen, causing him to curl in on himself due to his inability to deflect. 

Molly, John, and Mycroft all yelled out, flinching forward, the sound of the gun clicking into place stopping them in their tracks.  Janine fixed her hair and turned back to the group standing in abject horror.  “You took my brother from me, Mycroft Holmes.  Now you’re going to watch while I take yours from you.”

“Then I’m gonna kill you, love,” said Moran, looking at Molly.  Molly’s eyes swam behind tears as she chanced a look at Sherlock, who was wiggling back and forth on the floor behind a piece of old machinery.  “Jim meant the world to me, and-“

A shot rang out and Moran fell to the floor, a small hole between his eyes.  Molly screamed as his body hit the floor, blood pooling beneath his head.  “Never liked him much,” Janine deadpanned, lowering the gun and returning to Sherlock.  “And where do you think you’re going?”  Pulling the collar of his shirt, she was able to maneuver Sherlock to a standing position, albeit with his weight balanced precariously on one leg. 

With his legs and arms still bound, he swayed ominously as he tried to retain his balance on one leg.  “Do you want to hear the best part, Sherl?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried in vain to retreat to his mind palace, unable to block out the pain radiating from his leg. 

“Magnussen was in on the entire thing.  Where do you think Jim got his guidance?  How do you think the two of them met?  Then you had to go and off both of them, just when things were getting good!”

Sherlock shrieked, falling forward into Janine, who chuckled lightly.  Molly, John, and Mycroft were uncertain of what had happened until Janine spun Sherlock around in order to push him to the floor, revealing the hunting knife protruding from the flesh beneath his ribs on the left side.  Molly was just able to make out Sherlock’s eyes rolling into the back of his head before he fell out of view behind the machinery.

“SHERLOCK!” cried Mycroft and John at the same time, struggling against their bonds, Molly sobbing silently beside them. 

“Do you get it yet, Myc?  This was all for you!  I’m not even going to kill you.  See, I’m going to go shoot Sherlock in the head, leave you here, and pop off to some distant corner of the globe where even your men can’t find me,” she kneeled down next to Mycroft and held his chin in her hands, wiggling it back and forth like that of a child.  “You’ll get to live the rest of your boring, pathetic life with your brother’s blood on your hands.”

“Please,” Mycroft begged, both Molly and John shocked at the catch in his usually collected voice.  “Please, kill me instead.”

Janine stood up, still facing her captives.  “That’s not the point, though, is it?”

She turned and walked to the area where Sherlock had fallen out of sight, the gun cocked by her side.  Mycroft let out a guttural wail as he struggled fruitlessly against their bonds. 

“What the--“

Janine began, staring behind the machine in confusion.

An unguarded scream echoed through the hall as Sherlock lunged from behind Janine, wielding an enormous steel pipe in one hand.  With one fell swing, he made contact with Janine’s forehead, knocking her to the side, her body falling to the ground in a tremendous heap.  Sherlock dropped the pipe, though whether it was from shock as to what he had just done or the sheer inability to hold it up any longer, the group was not sure.  Red, raw, gaping incisions around his wrists showed how he had escaped his restraint, the discarded hunting knife in his back pocket and his cables lying on the floor near where he had been moments before. 

Attempting to make a step forward, his leg immediately gave way, causing him to fall forward to the ground, his good arm reaching up to clutch his misplaced shoulder. 

“The gun, Sherlock--get the gun,” Mycroft trembled, his voice betraying his emotions.

Sherlock crawled forward miserably on one arm and one leg, retrieving the gun and sliding it into his waistband. A path of blood followed his labored movements across the factory floor.  Slowly he made his way to the three tied on the floor, falling twice, letting out a pathetic whimper the second time and not getting up.

“Just a little farther, Sherlock, please!” Molly choked, desperate to reach out to him. 

Unable to raise himself anymore, he wiggled feebly on his belly to Molly, finally able to extract the knife from his pocket to cut her bindings.  The moment she was free she grabbed the knife from his hands and freed John and Mycroft, sliding her free hand underneath Sherlock’s head on the floor. 

John scuttled to their side, his hands probing Sherlock’s side for the stab wound, finding it just above his hip.  Using his jacket as padding, he placed pressure on the opening, willing it to stop bleeding. 

“That holiday is looking really good right now,” Sherlock wheezed, looking up at Molly with a strained smile. 

“Eh, what’s a beach and a couple of nice drinks compared to this action, huh?” she replied, cradling his head in her hands. 

“We need to call an ambulance,” said Mycroft, pacing back and forth next to Sherlock, turning slightly green as he took in the amount of blood surrounding his brother.

“Already here,” said a voice behind them, causing John, Molly, and Mycroft to jump.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock barked from the floor, not bothering to open his eyes.

Mary stepped out of the shadows, draped on both sides by paramedics and police officers, Greg Lestrade bringing up the rear. 

“Shut up, you didn’t exactly leave me much to go on,” Mary said, reaching out to hug John as the paramedics pushed him away from Sherlock. 

“What are you talking about?  Where’s Abigail?” John asked, seemingly content with the competence of the medical personnel now tending to Sherlock. 

“Oh, she’s heading up the sniper team outside.  She’s with Mrs. Hudson, you dolt,” she said as she gave him a playful hit on the shoulder before embracing him.

Sherlock pulled a mobile phone from the pocket of his trousers, handing it over to Mycroft.  “Pickpocketed that off Janine after I let Moran kidnap me.  Activated the recording device, so that should be helpful.”

“But not before he sent me a text with this location,” Mary explained.

“Lucky your name was still in the contacts,” he handed the phone to Mycroft, who stuffed it in his pocket and reached back out to hold Sherlock’s hand.

“Mycroft, what are you doing?” Sherlock groaned as a paramedic ripped the material of his trousers off his injured leg.

“I thought I’d lost you again,” Mycroft choked back a sob and quickly wiped a tear that had managed to escape his eye. 

“What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”  Sherlock mocked, giving him a weak smile as the paramedics began to lift him onto a stretcher.  “Molly?”

“Right here,” she said, standing as the stretcher was lifted, grasping his other hand, careful of the red gashes around his wrists.

“Make sure John doesn’t write this up on the blog before I have a chance to proofread it,” he said as he was wheeled outside to the waiting ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go! Including a very special cameo in the epilogue....
> 
> A special shout out to my beta Claudia, and thanks for all the reviews and support! I hope you're enjoying this as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	27. High Life

Molly walked through the crowded corridors of the hospital with Greg and John, making their way to Sherlock’s room after making their statements.  He had been assessed quickly upon their arrival, the doctors deeming the stab wound to be superficial despite its somewhat garish appearance.  His shoulder had been reset and his cuts and bruises had been tended to prior to his being wheeled away for surgery to reset his broken leg. 

“Any other news about the case?” John asked as they waited for the elevator to the recovery floors. 

“Well, I still have to get a statement from Mycroft, but I can, um…get that later,” the DI looked strangely uncomfortable for a moment before continuing.  “The important thing is that Sherlock managed to record it all.  Probably going to mean the difference between him having to ‘go into exile’ and all that,” he raised his hands to make quotations at Mycroft’s words for Sherlock’s punishment after shooting Magnussen.  “Gonna do all I can to make sure he’s exonerated.”

As they approached the door to Sherlock’s room, they stopped at an unfamiliar sound.  The blinds on the windows and door were all drawn, making it impossible to see into the room.

“Is that…someone laughing?” asked Greg.

“Did we get the wrong room?” asked John.

“No, 2206, this is the one Mycroft texted me,” answered Molly, knocking softly on the door.

The blinds parted slightly, revealing Mycroft looking tentatively out.  Releasing the blinds, he opened the door and slid out, trying to prevent them from seeing in, though a few stray giggles could be heard from inside the room. 

“You may want to wait a while before coming in,” he replied, leaning back against the door. 

“Why, what’s wrong?” queried Molly, suddenly concerned.

“Nothing,” Mycroft answered a little too quickly.  “Absolutely nothing is wrong.  He’s just…”

“Oh, god,” John sighed, wiping his face with his hands, a small grin finding a way to his features.  “What did they give him?”

“Tramadol,” Mycroft answered.

“Why not morphine?” inquired Molly, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

“Didn’t seem wise given his history of addiction,” Mycroft doted.

Lestrade shook his head back and forth between them.  “What are you three on about?”

“He’s high,” asserted Mycroft, giving John a dirty look as he chuckled into his hand.

“Oh, brilliant,” said Lestrade, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“You are not filming him, Gregory,” leered Mycroft, causing Molly and John to turn questioningly at the use of his full name. 

Lestrade replaced his phone as Mycroft made to grab the door handle.  “Just remember, he has absolutely no filter for what he’s saying.”

“So how is it any different than normal?” Molly asked as the door opened.

Sherlock was sitting up in bed, his leg covered in an enormous cast up to his thigh and propped up on several pillows.  There were bandages surrounding his wrists and covering several of the cuts and larger bruises, including the largest wound on his side.  Though one arm was in a sling, he carefully fiddled with a Rubix cube with both hands, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated on moving the colored panels.  As soon as he heard the door open, he dropped the toy and grinned comically wide, his eyes hazy.

“Myc-y!  You’re back!  And you brought more people!”  Molly, John, and Greg froze inside the doorway, shocked at Sherlock’s euphoric expression.  “Hey guys!” he slurred the ‘s’ for a fraction of a second too long.

“Oh my god, he’s-“ Molly began, horrified.

“-hilarious!” Lestrade finished, not even trying to hide his laughter as he moved to stand next to Mycroft on one side of the hospital bed.

“John!  John!  Come here!” Sherlock whispered loud enough for the entire room to hear, gesturing for John to come to the other side of the bed.  As he approached, Sherlock reached up with his good arm to pull John down close to him.  “Garrett is probably going to start spending more time with us.”

“Who?”  John asked, trying not to laugh at Sherlock’s slurred speech.

“Garrett!  Garrett Lestrade!  Didn’t you know?  He’s sleeping with my brot-“

 Lestrade’s hand clamped down over Sherlock’s mouth, his face turning bright red.

“He’s clearly…delirious.  Shouldn’t listen to a word outta him,” he stated, looking just about anywhere in the room except at anyone else.

“Right,” John smirked and turned to Molly, who was also trying not to laugh. 

“Ew, bloody hell!” Lestrade leapt away from Sherlock, shaking his hand.  “Bastard licked my hand!”  Sherlock gave an uncharacteristic giggle as Lestrade ran across the room to the wash basin.

“Could have warned you that trick was coming,” said Mycroft flatly.  “Watch out or he’ll glue your shoes to the floor next.”

Sherlock giggled again.  “Glue is a funny word.  Gluuuuuuuuu-“ he relaxed into his bed and sat both arms across his chest, gently patting his own stomach.  Finally, he stopped his giggles long enough to look hazily at Mycroft.

“Myc-y, Myc-y-“

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft rolled his eyes at the childhood nickname.

“Myc-y, where’s Molly?”

“I’m right here, Sherlock,” Molly stepped forward.

“You’re not Molly,” Sherlock laughed.  Everyone’s humored smiles fell from their faces.

“Sherlock, it’s me,” Molly whispered, leaning in towards him, trying her best to maintain a smile.

“Nope,” replied Sherlock, closing his eyes.  “You look just like her, but Molly’s my girlfriend and she’s reeeeeeeealy mad at me.”

Seeing where this was possibly going, Molly turned to the other men in the room.  “Could you give us a minute?”

The three men nodded, turning to leave the room.  Molly couldn’t help but smile as she noticed Mycroft gently guide Greg out with a hand at the small of his back.  When the door clicked shut, she turned back to Sherlock.

“Why do you think your…” she smiled as she struggled over the word, “-girlfriend is mad at you?”

“Because I said a bunch of stuff that I didn’t mean and was reeeeeeeeealy mean to her,” he drew out the word again, lazily flipping his head back and forth on his pillow.

“I’m sure she said some pretty awful things too that she didn’t mean.”

“Nope, wrong!”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, reaching out to hold his hand.

“Molly’s never mean.  She’s perfect.  I love her.”

Molly froze.  Sherlock was still smiling as his head lolled back and forth, seemingly unaware of the weight of what he just said. 

“You’re really pretty,” he stopped to smile stupidly at her.

She choked out a laugh as she felt a tear streak down her cheek.  “Sherlock, you can stop now, I know you’re completely lucid.”

His smile fell and an expression of shocked hurt filled his face.  “How did you know?”

Molly wiped the tear off her cheek.  “Because you know Lestrade’s name.  You only make one up when you’re trying to piss him off,” she leaned down and buried her face in his neck, his good arm coming around her in an embrace, the smile returning to his face. 

“I’m sorry, Molly.”

“I know.  Me too.”

He reached down and lowered the side of the hospital bed, scooting himself to the side as an invitation for Molly to lie down next to him.  She obliged cautiously, careful not to upset any of his IVs or bandages.  When she was settled, he brought his un-slinged arm down to allow his hand to gently run through her hair. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“If you’re not really high, you just outed your brother and Greg for the sheer hell of it, didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s answering giggle was all the answer she needed.


	28. Epilogue: A Pirate's Life For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special cameo in this final one...

“Happy Birthday!”

Sherlock smiled a tight-lipped grin as he was pushed into the living room of his parent’s house two weeks later, an enormous homemade “Welcome Home” banner stretched across the doorway.

“Happy Birthday, mate!” repeated John as Molly moved around to help Sherlock from the wheelchair and onto the sofa.  His surgical cast had been replaced by a fiberglass one, but with one arm out of commission as well, he had been relegated to a wheelchair until his shoulder was strong enough to use crutches.  It had been decided that the stairs at 221B would be too difficult to navigate, so his recovery would take place with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. 

“Happy Birthday, Darling,” said Mrs. Holmes as she snuck in and planted a kiss on his cheek as he struggled against it, Mr. Holmes approaching from behind and ruffling his hair.

“Thanks, Mum,” Sherlock drawled, gently batting his mother away from hugging him again. 

“Martha and I baked you a cake,” Mrs. Holmes said, gently cupping her son’s cheek, much to his chagrin.  Molly stood in the corner with Mary, making faces at Abigail and laughing at her pleased reactions.  The door opened once more, announcing the arrival of Mycroft and Lestrade, the latter sporting a bit of a blush after noticing everybody looking at their simultaneous arrival. 

Mr. Holmes reached Mycroft first, pulling him into a hug, surprising everyone when he pulled Lestrade in as well.  Mrs. Holmes rose and gave both men kisses on the cheek, smiling knowingly at Lestrade.

“Welcome, Greg, it’s so nice to see you again.”

Lestrade babbled an incoherent greeting, following Mycroft over to Sherlock. 

“Hello, Brother Mine, alive but still not quite kicking, I see,” Mycroft joked, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and nod at him.

“Yes, hilarious, Mycroft.”

“Happy Birthday,” Mycroft drawled, pulling an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handing it to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the envelope and peered inside quizzically.  “Plane tickets?”

“Yes.  Did I or did I not overhear you and Doctor Hooper discussing the taking of a holiday?”

“Yes, yes you did,” Molly approached, taking the tickets out of Sherlock’s hands and throwing her arms around Mycroft’s neck.  “Thank you so much, Mycroft!”

Mycroft awkwardly patted Molly’s back as she released her attempted hug and inspected the tickets more closely.  “These don’t have a destination on them.”

Mycroft turned to address Sherlock.  “I have made the arrangements with Martin.  He shall fly you to whatever destination you and Doctor Hooper so choose without my knowledge.”

Sherlock ventured a small smile at him.  “Right, like Martin was ever able to keep a secret.”

“You have my word,” Mycroft answered, turning to walk away.  “So glad you’re home, Sherlock.”

“Who’s Martin?” asked Molly, sitting gently on Sherlock’s lap, still staring at the tickets.

“Our brother,” Sherlock answered, rubbing his hand up and down Molly’s back and leaning his head against her shoulder.

“What?!” she shouted, turning so quickly Sherlock winced slightly.  “Sorry!”

“Well, half-brother…it’s a long story.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“I don’t see why we have to do this,” Sherlock said, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrests of his seat. 

“You said you wanted to go on holiday,” Molly answered from right next to him, reaching over to loosen his grip on the seat.  “You never told me you were afraid of flying.”

“I’m not afraid of flying, I’m afraid of falling.  And when I said I wanted to go on holiday I thought we could go somewhere to solve cases…like…a different morgue or something.”

“Sherlock, you are going to go on holiday, sit on a beach, sip fruity cocktails, and not think about murder for eight whole days.”

Sherlock gave the most pathetic whine he could muster.  “That sounds so boring.”

“I know.  It’s wonderful!” Molly gloated as she leaned over to give him a solid kiss on the mouth, just as they were approached by the flight attendant. 

“Hello!  My name’s Arthur! Are you really Skip’s brother?” The young man had an elfish smile and bright eyes. 

“Half-brother, yes,” said a voice from behind him.  Molly had to stifle a gasp as she looked at who appeared to be a shorter, skinnier, and ginger-headed Sherlock with freckles.  “Mycroft called and said Sherlock wanted to go on holiday with his girlfriend-I had to see that you were a real person.”

“Martin!  Why aren’t you flying the plane?!” Sherlock cried, his eyes wide and all the color draining from his face. 

“Relax, my first officer is still up there,” he turned back to Molly.  “Martin Crieff, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Molly Hooper, nice to meet you too, Martin,” Molly shook his outstretched hand in awe as Arthur turned back around to hand Sherlock a drink. 

“Here you go, Mr. Holmes-Mum always makes this for me when I get nervous.  Nice flight!”  He turned and walked back to the galley.

“You probably shouldn’t drink that,” replied Martin.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“I told you this was a bad idea,” scowled Sherlock as he gingerly lowered his searing red arms.

“And I told you that you needed sunscreen,” Molly answered from the door, carrying in their beach bag and setting it by the door.  They had spent the day on the beach, Molly with a novel and Sherlock with some old cold case files Molly had surprised him with.  His cast meant they were unable to get into the water, but that didn’t mean Molly hadn’t enjoyed the look of Sherlock Holmes shirtless and in swim shorts.  He collapsed heavily on the couch and allowed his crutches to fall to the floor beside him.

Molly emerged from the bathroom of their rented cottage a few minutes later with a bottle of aloe and a DVD in her hands.  She inserted the movie into the player and approached Sherlock on the couch.  “Budge up, we’re watching a movie.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, hefting himself up only enough for Molly to fit underneath him, falling back so his head rested on her stomach.  “What inane romantic comedy have you chosen this time?”

“Oh, shut up, you’ll like this one,” she said as she squeezed a generous amount of the green gel into her hands, smiling at the yelp he made when the cold liquid came into contact with his burned shoulders.  He continued to pout until the opening scene began.  Dark water filled the screen, a child’s voice ringing out from the deck of a large ship.

_“Yo, ho, yo, ho, a pirate’s life for me,”_

Sherlock sat up a little straighter, his eyes widening.  “Is this a movie about pirates?”

“Aptly, ones from the Caribbean,” Molly joked.

Two hours later, Molly had very nearly fallen asleep, despite Sherlock watching the entire movie at rapt attention, making not a single scathing remark.

“That movie was brilliant, Molly!” he turned around to face her, shocked at her drowsy appearance. 

“I’m glad you liked it.” 

He turned back around, settling against her chest in the closest Sherlock Holmes could ever get to a cuddle.  “Jack Sparrow is a stupid name, though.”

Molly laughed.  “Says the man named ‘Sherlock.’”

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile.  “Please, like Hooper is any better.”

“Well, what would you like me to change it to, you berk?”

“How do you feel about Holmes?”

Molly stiffened, feeling Sherlock tense on her chest.  He raised himself onto his elbows, cautiously looking into her face. 

“Did you just…” Molly stammered, her eyes wide, unblinking.

“Yes,” he answered, licking his lips and staring back at her.

“Sherlock, I…”

“No, no, it’s fine.  I totally understand, it was too quick.  Just forget I-“

He had started to get up, only to be stopped by Molly grabbing his face with both hands, pulling him back down.

“Yes.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, uncertain as to what she was affirming.  “Yes…what?”

“Yes…I’ll marry you,” she answered, her face breaking into a gigantic grin.  She pulled his face down to hers for a kiss. 

“Oh, right.  That,” Sherlock answered, his eyes still closed from the kiss.  “I don’t have a ring or anything, I hadn’t actually planned on asking you-“

Molly kissed him again, effectively shutting him up.  “I don’t care.  As long as I get to be with you.”

Sherlock returned her smile, a wide, genuine grin that he so rarely wore.  He leaned down to kiss her once more.  “So…what now?” he asked, his fingers absently rubbing her sides where his hands rested on her body. 

“Well, Doctor Watson recommended lots of bed rest, so maybe we should get you to bed,” she said, bringing her hands up to run her fingers through his tangled hair. 

“Molly, it’s barely six o’clock, why would I go to bed now?”

Molly stared at him meaningfully, waiting for the penny to drop.  Finally, his eyebrows raised and his eyes lit up.

“Oh.  _Oh._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An eternal thank you to all who have read and commented...please keep them coming! And a huge thank you to my beta, Claudia, without whom this fic would be riddled with grammatical errors. Thanks for the support, I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. More stories to come in the future!


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